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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25385587">Return to me (for my heart wants you only)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/cobaltmoony/pseuds/cobaltmoony'>cobaltmoony</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/obsessivereader/pseuds/obsessivereader'>obsessivereader</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Reincarnation [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Adultery (not between Steve and Bucky), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bachelor Auction, Bearded Steve Rogers, Brief mention of suicide ideation, Burns, Canon-Typical Violence, Captain America Steve Rogers/Modern Bucky Barnes, Hook-Up, Identity Porn, Kidnapping, M/M, Masks, POV Alternating, Protective Steve Rogers, Reincarnation, Temporary character death (Bucky dies and is reincarnated), brief description of medical procedures, explicit art</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 11:47:31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>33,121</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25385587</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/cobaltmoony/pseuds/cobaltmoony, https://archiveofourown.org/users/obsessivereader/pseuds/obsessivereader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve’s not sure why he walks up to the bar and orders a whiskey on the rocks from the bartender instead of walking away. When he thinks on it later, the only conclusion he can come up with is that somehow some part of him had <i>known.</i></p><p>As he waits for his drink, he can feel the guy’s eyes on him, checking him out. He returns the favor, letting his gaze drift down a lean body in a perfectly tailored tux, then all the way up till their eyes meet. The guy looks young, maybe around twenty-five, but it's hard to be sure with the mask hiding part of his face.</p><p>The guy smirks at him with sinfully pink lips, but his light eyes are shadowed, making them hard to read. “You come here often?”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers &amp; Natasha Romanov, Steve Rogers &amp; Sam Wilson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Reincarnation [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1840162</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>89</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>513</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Primus Inter Pares</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p><b>cobaltmoony:</b> Thank you so much Gerry for inviting me to this awesome collab project! I had so much fun brainstorming with you and the story is :chef kiss: I've always love the reincarnation trope and I feel the fic incorporate all of my headcanon for reincarnation stucky fic! </p><p><b>obsessivereader:</b> Moony, as fellow fan of the reincarnation trope, this collab with you has been a joy to work on! Thank you for brainstorming with me, cheerleading as I wrote this, and also for being so patient with me since this took far longer than expected due to so many reasons &lt;3 Thank you also for that INCREDIBLE ART!!! Still not over it [swoons]</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>2016</strong>
</p><p>Steve tugs at the collar of his tuxedo shirt and readjusts the black velvet domino mask on his face for what is probably the fiftieth time. The masquerade charity gala reminds him too much of his days as an army shill and it’s making him a little crazy. The white-haired Ebenezer Scrooge that’s seated on his left pauses his stream of small talk to give Steve a look as if to check that he’s still paying attention.</p><p>Ah, shit. He hasn’t paid any attention to anything the man’s said in… a while. After a panicked moment considering his options, he smiles politely and says, “That’s interesting.”</p><p>Scrooge gives him an affronted look. “Is it?” With a sniff, he turns away to talk to the lady on his other side.</p><p>Damn. Should’ve gone with <em>Oh dear.</em></p><p>He swallows a sigh and takes a sip of his tepid champagne. It’s going to be a long night. He hates being hemmed in by the chatter of countless voices. He hates people in constant motion blocking his view of the exits. He hates that he can’t see their eyes. He’ll suck it up and make nice in his penguin suit, though, because the gala is for a good cause.</p><p>“You’re fidgeting,” Nat murmurs, as she takes the empty seat on his right. She’s also dressed in a tux complete with a cummerbund and a platinum blonde wig covering her red hair. The wig is styled into a short, curly bob and a top hat is perched jauntily on top. Marlene Dietrich would’ve been proud. After the whole Hydra/SHIELD shitshow and Nat’s Capitol Hill hearing, he likes to publicly remind everyone that she’s an Avenger <em>and</em> has his full support. So when he got the invitation to the gala, he asked her along as his plus one.</p><p>Steve tugs at his mask. “Of course I’m fidgeting.” The skin behind it feels hot and clammy with sweat.</p><p>Nat gives him an amused look. “Shouldn’t you be used to wearing a mask by now?”</p><p>“I’m usually too busy to notice any discomfort. Besides, that’s a custom-made mask, using some bla bla bla high tech material, sweat-wicking something…” Steve gestures vaguely. Nat snorts at Steve’s extremely disinterested recitation of his Captain America cowl’s features. “How much longer do we have to stay?”</p><p>“Quit whining, Rogers.”</p><p>“I’m not whining.”</p><p>He’s whining. At least with the mask and his beard, he’s managed to go through the event so far without anyone recognizing him. People tend to get weird around him. Even the celebrities that attend Tony’s events can’t seem to get past the whole Captain America thing. Tony said once that even the famous want to know what freedom tastes like. Steve spent about twenty minutes wishing he had the ability to edit his eidetic memory because he would very much like to forget that particular sequence of words.</p><p>The dizzying array of masks and the din in the room soon gets too much for him. “I’m going to get a drink.” It won’t do anything for him, but at least it’ll get him away from the noise for a while.</p><p>Nat gives him an understanding look. “Don’t get lost.”</p><p>With a nod, he gets up from the table and threads his way through the crowd. The bar is blessedly empty except for the bartender and a guy sitting alone at the counter, hunched over his drink.</p><p>His steps falter. Suddenly, he’s standing in a tavern long since destroyed, rowdy voices singing in the background. The feeling of displacement is so strong that he nearly staggers. He’s got to stop doing this, stop seeing Bucky everywhere whether it’s in the line of a shoulder, the cut of a jaw, the neat shell of an ear.</p><p>Even though it’s been three years for him since he lost Bucky—since he let Bucky fall—some days, the grief still feels fresh and raw. But the guy at the bar isn’t Bucky. He’s just some stranger and Steve’s just seeing things. At a closer look, he’s not even sure why the guy made him think of Bucky. His hair is long and tied back in a low ponytail and half his face is obscured by a mask. It’s black, like Steve’s, but where Steve’s is boring and traditional, the guy’s mask is a fantasy affair of curving lines and lace-like cutouts with edges that sweep up into his hair.</p><p>Steve’s not sure why he walks up to the bar and orders a whiskey on the rocks from the bartender instead of walking away. When he thinks on it later, the only conclusion he can come up with is that somehow some part of him had <em>known</em>.</p><p>As he waits for his drink, he can feel the guy’s eyes on him, checking him out. He returns the favor, letting his gaze drift down a lean body in a perfectly tailored tux, then all the way up till their eyes meet. The guy looks young, maybe around twenty-five, but it's hard to be sure with the mask hiding part of his face.</p><p>The guy smirks at him with sinfully pink lips, but his light eyes are shadowed, making them hard to read. “You come here often?”</p><p>Steve shivers at the sound of that velvety voice. He can’t help but see Bucky in the shape of those pouting lips and the slant of bedroom eyes behind his half-mask. Thank God the guy’s accent helps dispel that illusion—he sounds posh, like he’s a member of Society with a capital S.</p><p>The bartender puts his drink on the counter, giving him an excuse to look away and gather himself. He takes a sip of whiskey, the familiar burn as it slides down his throat helping to settle him. “Does that line actually work for you?” he says.</p><p>The guy leans in close like he’s about to confide a secret. Steve instinctively mirrors the movement.</p><p>“Enough,” the guy murmurs. He looks up at Steve through long, feathery lashes, invitation in every line of his body.</p><p>Christ, he wants to <em>wreck </em>the guy. Steve smiles in spite of himself. “Obviously you have this down to a science.”</p><p>The guy’s smile looks edged with crushed glass. “It helps to pass the time.”</p><p>“You got a name?”</p><p>“You can call me… John.”</p><p>“Let me guess,” Steve says. “Surname: Smith.”</p><p>A smirk, a lick of the lips and prolonged eye contact is his only answer.</p><p>Steve sits down on the barstool next to John. He’s pretty sure he’s not unwelcome. “Wouldn’t you have better luck over there?” He nods in the direction of the crowded tables full of people in glittering gowns and thousand-dollar tuxes.</p><p>John shrugs as he gives Steve a very thorough once-over. “I think my luck here has been just fine.”</p><p>“You think so?”</p><p>“Well… it’s been fine up to a point.” He takes another sip of his drink without taking his eyes off Steve. “After that, it’s up to you.”</p><p>Steve’s eyebrows shoot up. “Where exactly are you going with this?”</p><p>“A five-star toilet stall somewhere in this fine establishment we’re in, if you’ll join me.”</p><p>That was direct. And tempting. So very tempting. A small selfish part of him can’t help thinking this might be his one chance to live out his fantasy of being with Bucky. He’s seen other guys who’ve looked like Bucky, but none of them have ever tempted him to compromise his principles like John has—to use a stranger as a stand-in for Bucky. He can’t even see the guy’s face, and yet…</p><p>At his prolonged silence, John seems to fold up into himself. His smile turns self-mocking. As he leans back, a stray beam of light falls across his face. Something in his eyes makes Steve think of raw edges and bleeding wounds.</p><p>“You don’t seem…” Steve searches for words to convey his worry.</p><p>“Drowning my sorrows in dick is a tried and tested form of self-care.” John tilts his head. “I’m a big boy, I know what I’m doing.”</p><p>“Self-care, huh.”</p><p>“Wanna help with that?”</p><p>“Help take care of you?” Steve asks. It comes out sounding almost stern.</p><p>John’s eyes go wide, almost shocked, then his pupils dilate and he sucks in a breath. The sound goes straight to Steve’s cock. And the thing is, when he makes the offer, he’s not just thinking about sex. Something about John, about the pain he’s trying to hide, it calls to something in Steve. He doesn’t think he could walk away even if he tried. He pushes aside his guilt as he leans in till his lips are almost brushing John’s ear. “Lead the way.”</p><p>John searches his eyes, as though he can’t quite believe he heard correctly. He stands up, and with a last wide-eyed look over his shoulder, walks out of the ballroom. Steve throws back the last of his whiskey and follows.</p><p>*</p><p>The washroom is blessedly empty when they get there. It’s all cream marble tiles and gleaming mirrors that Steve barely pays attention to as he guides John past the urinals and into the last empty stall. He locks the door behind them and crowds John back against the wall. “You sure about this?”</p><p>John rolls his eyes and pulls Steve into a kiss. It’s soft and teasing, a brush of lips against lips until Steve leans into him with a frustrated growl and licks his way into John’s mouth. John goes pliant against him with a sigh, opening up and ceding control of the kiss. Something about that sends a dark and drugging heat coiling up Steve’s spine as he pins John against the wall with his hips. John is already hard—and fuck, so is he. Just from a few kisses.</p><p>He kisses his way up to the shell of John’s ear, traces the delicate whorls with the tip of his tongue. John keens, high and reedy as he jerks in Steve’s arms. Steve thinks of rumpled sheets and a darkened room and unlimited time to pull that sound from John over and over and over again. If he’s so sensitive there, what would happen if Steve did the same thing to his nipples… to his cock. Wanting to find out, Steve tugs on the ends of John’s bow tie and unbuttons the top few buttons of his shirt. He makes his way down the elegant line of John’s neck, nipping and kissing at the vulnerable skin while his thumb rubs teasing circles around one peaked nipple. Some base, primal part of him drives him to suck a mark at the juncture of neck and shoulder while he presses his thumbnail into John’s nipple. He wants John to look at that mark and <em>remember.</em></p><p>John arches back, hips jerking as he shudders. “Please,” he gasps.</p><p>“What do you want?” Steve whispers.</p><p>With a glance from under long lashes, John turns them around and pushes Steve back against the wall. He slips out of his jacket and drops to his knees, movements shaky and uncoordinated. He grips the zipper of Steve’s pants and waits, not even breathing, as he looks up at Steve with the eyes of a supplicant.</p><p>Something hungry and very possessive wells up inside Steve when he realizes what that look means—John’s asking for permission. “Open it,” he says, in a low voice he barely recognizes as his own.</p><p>Lush pink lower lip caught between his teeth, John pulls the tab down. The look in his eyes is a mix of sinful and sweet as he traces the shape of Steve’s cock with his fingers. Muted by fabric, the sensation is whisper-soft and tantalizing and nothing but a goddamned tease. John tugs the briefs out of the way and gets a hand around Steve’s cock. Another questioning look. Steve nods, heart turning over in his chest. A smile flashes across John’s face—full of anticipation and almost smug. He licks his lips and takes Steve’s cock into the wet heat of his mouth, slowly, slowly, all the way down to the root, without taking his eyes off Steve. The little punk is <em>showing off. </em>Steve’s breath shudders out of him. He tangles a hand in John’s hair and tightens his grip until John’s eyelids flutter and a muffled sound escapes him.</p><p>“Good boy,” Steve whispers. “Look at you, taking me so beautifully.” Another muffled moan as John stares up at him like Steve’s his entire world, the mask throwing his light eyes into sharp relief. God, this guy is addictive. “Go on.”</p><p>John's eyes slip closed as he tightens his lips over Steve's cock, and fuck, an image of Bucky flits through his head. Those lips…</p><p>Thank God John does something with his tongue that drives all thought from Steve’s mind before guilt can fully take hold. Everything narrows down to that point of contact, to the silky heat of that mouth, the velvet caress of that expert tongue. Steve hasn't been a choir boy since he woke up from the ice but this guy… he's getting to Steve like no one ever has.</p><p>He squeezes his eyes shut because the sight of John on his knees looking like he’s having a religious experience is tipping him too fast towards his orgasm. He wants to take John home and spend a day, a week, <em>longer,</em> taking him apart. The thought of what he wants to do to John has his control snapping. “I’m gonna…” He lets go of John’s head so he can pull off if he wants to.</p><p>He doesn’t want to, seeming to see that as a challenge as he sinks down even further and swallows around Steve’s cock, milking his orgasm right out of him.</p><p><em>“Fuck.” </em>Steve’s hips jerk, shoving him even deeper down the tight channel of John’s throat. “Jesus Christ.” His breaths are harsh and loud, echoing off the walls. If anyone walks in, there’ll be no mistaking what’s going on in the last stall.</p><p>He pulls John off with a hand in his hair. Steve’s cock is still hard thanks to the serum, but it’s too sensitive to handle John’s attentions. For the next five minutes, at any rate.</p><p>Come slips down John’s chin as he tries to swallow. He looks wrecked. Steve already wants to wreck him again. He’s going to draw John just like that—head tipped back in surrender, hair in disarray, lips parted, slick and shiny with Steve's come.</p><p>
  
</p><p>He pulls John to his feet and into a kiss that’s near-ravenous. He licks at John’s skin, enjoying the prickle of stubble against his lips as he follows the trickle of come that trails down John’s chin towards his Adam’s apple.</p><p>“Fuck,” John whispers, voice hoarse as he tips his head back to let Steve clean off his neck.</p><p>Once Steve has sucked off every last drop of his come, he tucks himself away and flips their positions. “I'm gonna take care of you now,” he whispers, as he presses John back against the wall. He reaches out his hand to pull off the mask hiding John’s face.</p><p>John's eyes go wide. “Don’t,” he whispers, as he wraps his hand around Steve’s wrist.</p><p>Christ, he's in over his head. He gets the feeling there’s very little he won’t do for John if he but asks. The feeling is familiar, an echo of how he felt about—</p><p>He drops his hand as though burned. John's not Bucky. He's just a stranger looking for a distraction, and that’s what he’s supposed to be… a distraction. If John wanted more than that, he'd have let Steve remove the mask.</p><p>If a distraction is all he's looking for, then Steve will be the best goddamned distraction he can be. He's about to drop to his knees when John catches his arm. There's a look of pleased surprise on his face, but the vulnerability in his eyes hurts Steve to see.</p><p>“Tell me what you want,” Steve says.</p><p>“Kiss me?” John asks, almost tentatively.</p><p>Stroking stray tendrils of silky brown hair aside, Steve leans in to kiss John—soft, soothing. He takes his time learning the shape and taste John's mouth. When John kisses him back, it’s so sweet that it steals the very breath from Steve’s lungs.</p><p>Their kisses stay slow and drugging until John makes a frustrated sound. “More,” he whispers, as his fingers tangle in Steve’s hair. Steve cups John’s ass and pulls him in close. His eyes go wide when he feels Steve’s still-hard cock pressed against his. “Are you still—?”</p><p>“Weird quirk of biology.” Steve tips John’s face up. “Don’t worry about it.” He presses his hand to the bulge in John's pants and raises an eyebrow.</p><p>John nods, his kiss-swollen lower lip caught between his teeth. Steve unzips his pants to find the front of John's briefs wet with pre-come. “Christ, look at you,” he says, as he pushes the briefs down. John's cock is red and engorged, the tip shiny and slick. “So hard for me already just from sucking me off.”</p><p>“What can I say?” John squirms, face flushing a beautiful pink as Steve strokes him. “I love sucking cock. And this one”—he cups Steve’s cock—“is a fucking work of art.” He bites his lip and peeks up through his lashes. “If you can go again…” his voice trails off suggestively.</p><p>Oh, this brat. Another surge of lust hits Steve with the force of a Howitzer. “We can talk after I'm done with you.” The words come out low—almost a command—which John seems to find hot if his shuddering inhale is anything to go by. Steve spits into his hand and wraps it around John’s cock in a grip that’s too loose to be satisfying and starts jerking him off slowly.</p><p>John moans into Steve’s mouth as his hands crush the lapels of Steve's jacket. “Please,” he whispers, low and sweet, as he arches up into Steve's grip.</p><p>The plea makes Steve feel sharp and very hungry. He wants to see how far he can push John, how much he can take. “What do you want?” He rubs gentle circles on the tip of John's cock with his thumb, pre-come slicking the way. “Ask me nicely and you might get it.”</p><p>“Please,” John moans. “Please, harder.” His face is flushed and sweat gleams at his temples as he shifts restlessly against Steve.</p><p>Steve makes a considering sound. “Not quite yet.”</p><p>
  <em>“Fuck.”</em>
</p><p>The expletive comes out shaky and desperate, but the way John's cock twitches as Steve continues to stroke it gently is proof he's made the right decision.</p><p>“You're being so good for me. Just a little longer.”</p><p>Heat crawls over Steve's skin as John makes a soft, shivery noise at the praise. If he could, he'd spend hours whispering praise onto every inch of John's skin. But for now, he'll satisfy himself by making John beg as he continues to slide his spit-slick hand up and down that pretty pink cock.</p><p>John is already looking near to tears when the washroom door suddenly bangs open. A single set of footsteps approach, dress shoes clicking loudly on the tiled floor. They freeze and stare at each other in momentary surprise. Steve's heart pounds with the illicit thrill of potential discovery—Captain America, jerking off a total stranger in a toilet stall at a black-tie charity event. The Fox News pundits would have a field day. Honestly, he doesn’t give a fuck. It wasn’t his idea to scrub his image so clean that it squeaked.</p><p>Then, a little devil inside has him continuing to stroke his hand over John’s cock, slow and tantalizing. John’s eyes go wide with realization as he bites down hard on his lower lip. A tiny whimper escapes him. Steve leans close, lips brushing against John’s ear. “Can you be quiet for me?”</p><p>John’s eyes, already glazed with desire, get even darker as he nods.</p><p>Steve doesn't care if the guy in the washroom hears them. He just likes telling John what to do, because John seems to get off on it, and because he’s realizing that he does, too. Watching John struggle to obey is pushing buttons he didn’t know he had. He tightens his grip, stroking faster now, pushing John, testing his control. John bites his lips, his breathing rapid as he writhes and shudders, hands locked in a death grip on Steve’s jacket. His gaze stays locked on Steve’s.</p><p>“Almost there, baby,” he whispers. John squeezes his eyes shut and tips his head back, a muffled moan slipping past his gritted teeth. It’s barely audible over the sound of running water but John’s gaze snaps to Steve, panicked. “It’s okay, it’s okay. You’re doing so good. I’ve got you.” Steve kisses him, swallowing the desperate sounds he makes as he comes in Steve’s hand. Dimly, Steve registers the sound of fading footsteps as John shakes and shudders through his orgasm. The moment the washroom door closes, Steve pulls back. He revels in the sound of John's cries echoing off the walls now that they're no longer trapped by his kiss, and drinks in the sight of John's uninhibited pleasure. It's the single hottest thing he's ever seen in his life.</p><p>The cries turn to shaky breaths as John slumps back against the wall, eyes closed, lips parted, tendrils of hair hanging down over his brow to catch on the edges of his mask. Steve cleans off his hand with a wad of toilet paper by feel since he can’t take his eyes off John.</p><p>He’s still watching when John's eyes finally open. “Hey,” John says, almost dreamily, fingers coming up to comb through Steve’s beard. He seems oddly fascinated by it. “I guess we should be getting back.”</p><p>John sounds regretful, which makes Steve feel a lot happier than it should. He nods and brushes John’s hair off his face.</p><p>“God, I must look a mess.”</p><p>“A little.” But a gorgeous mess. “Let’s tidy you up, hmm?”</p><p>By some small miracle, Steve managed to catch almost all of John’s come in his hand, so there’s only one tiny silvery smear of it on John’s pants. He likes knowing it’s there, a little mark of their encounter for everyone to see.</p><p>John tucks himself away and then he re-ties his hair, taking great care not to dislodge his mask. He’s about to do up the buttons of his shirt when Steve pushes his hands away. After a brief moment of surprise, John drops his arms back to his sides and stands quiescent while Steve does up the buttons of his shirt. Steve can’t resist brushing a thumb over the bruise he sucked onto John’s skin, just at the juncture of shoulder and neck.</p><p>He always wanted to do this for Bucky, take care of him and pamper him. He wanted to do it before the war when he was tiny and weak and Bucky was big and strong. He wanted it even more after he found Bucky strapped to that metal table, near-delirious from whatever was done to him.</p><p>All he managed though, was cooking the odd uninspired meal, mending a torn shirt or pants. And after Kreichsberg, he didn’t think Bucky would’ve let him do more beyond sitting close by while he slept fitfully, not with how jumpy he became.</p><p>Steve knows it’s wrong to use John to fulfill his own selfish fantasies, but it’s not like he’s hurting anyone. And with how careful John is about the mask, it’s clear he wants this to stay as nothing more than an anonymous fuck. Steve should respect that.</p><p>It’s better this way, he tells himself. Three years out of the ice and he’s still not over Bucky. Seeing a guy who reminds him of Bucky will be a bad proposition for both of them. He does up the last button and re-ties John’s bow tie, relieved to see that it survived their encounter with barely a wrinkle.</p><p>John’s eyes are heavy on him as he tucks a last, stray tendril of hair behind John’s ear and steps back.“All done,” he says.</p><p>John tucks in his shirt and slips into his jacket as Steve tidies himself up. A strange tension hangs in the air between them, solemn and almost melancholy as though they’re already turning back into strangers. John takes a deep breath. His lips part...</p><p>Steve’s heart turns over.</p><p>The washroom door slams open, followed by the sound of muffled laughter and loud footsteps. Two men, Steve thinks. Two men with the worst fucking timing in the whole goddamned world.</p><p>They careen their way into the next toilet stall and make very little attempt to disguise what they’re doing in there. One of them bumps into the shared wall with loud thud. More muffled laughter. Someone is shushed.</p><p><em>What the fuck,</em> John mouths, just as a loud moan echoes resoundingly off the tiled walls.</p><p>Jesus Christ. Steve can feel a smile tugging at his lips, unable to hang on to his resentment when John’s looking at him with bright eyes full of suppressed mirth. He unlocks the stall door and motions for John to precede him. After a brief stop at the sinks to clean up and check themselves over in the mirror, they flee the washroom. Steve scopes the hallway for a private spot where he can pull John aside to ask him what he was going to say before they got interrupted, but the door has barely closed behind them when he spots Nat heading for them.</p><p>“We have to go,” she says, all business.</p><p>Next to him, John’s steps falter. Steve turns to check on him, but without a word, without even looking at Steve, he picks up his pace and walks back to the ballroom. Steve stares after him, question dying on his tongue as he tries to keep the hurt off his face.</p><p>“Made a new friend?” Nat studies Steve’s wrinkled jacket.</p><p>“No.” John’s departure had made that very clear. “What happened?”</p><p>“Ten Rings is planning to blow up an oil refinery in Saudi Arabia. A quinjet’s on its way here to pick us up from the roof.”</p><p>Steve nods and falls in next to Nat. She’ll know the way to the roof, of course. She made sure to scope out every exit point before even setting foot in the hotel.</p><p>Hours later, battered and exhausted, he falls asleep in the quinjet on the way back home. He dreams of Bucky falling.</p><p>*</p><p>James jerks awake and stares up at the ceiling, the sound of rushing wind and his scream still echoing in his ears. He shivers and tugs the blanket up to his chin as he blinks away the afterimage of an outstretched hand that remains forever out of reach. Not so easy to dispel the loss and terror that lingers like a chill on his skin.</p><p>He huddles in his bed as he waits for his body to warm up. He hasn’t had that nightmare in years, just the usual, run-of-the-mill ones like springing out naked from a giant birthday cake to find his boyfriend kissing the wife he was supposed to be separated from while a huge crowd of people point at James and laugh. At least he knows exactly why he has that particular nightmare. After what happened with the guy last night, he’s surprised that <em>wasn</em><em>’t</em> the nightmare to wake him up. He sure knows how to pick them. The thought is bitter acid as his skin crawls with shame.</p><p>It’s still better than the other dream, the one where he’s held down screaming while someone cuts off his arm with a saw. That dream starts in pain and terror and ends in a complete and utter stillness that terrifies him because of the relief that it brings. It’s an end, a cessation.</p><p>His phone buzzes, a welcome distraction. He picks it up just as he hears his front door opening. “Hey, Jess,” he mumbles. “If that’s not you, better call 911 to report my murder.”</p><p>“You’re morbid this morning.”</p><p>James can hear the odd echo of his sister’s voice drifting in through the bedroom door. Not an ax murderer in his apartment after all. “It’s just been that kind of weekend.”</p><p>“Good thing I stopped by at your favorite bakery on the way over then.”</p><p>“You got the brioche donuts?” Even the idea of them is enough to perk him up a little.</p><p>“I did. Now get your ass out here.” She hangs up without another word.</p><p>James drags himself out of his bedroom to find Jess setting out the pastries on the breakfast counter. She’s also bought him a huge cup of coffee to go with them. He looks at everything and then at her. She’s dressed in slim-fitting sweatpants and an oversized red pullover, clothes that mean she’s ready to settle in for however long it takes to drag something out of him.</p><p>“You heard, huh.”</p><p>Jess’ mouth pinches into a tight line as she slides a plate loaded with donuts towards him and sets the coffee in front of him. She sits down and tucks her long brown hair behind her ears. She folds her arms on the table and levels her gaze on him.</p><p>Oh fuck, she’s in hard truth mode.</p><p>She says, “That Daniel, the Asshole Extraordinaire, was at the dinner last night?” She doesn’t add ‘with his wife’ to the end of that sentence, which is a kindness. “Yeah. I heard.” Her voice softens. “You look rough.”</p><p>James laughs, sharp and harsh. He slides into the seat next to her, avoiding her too-perceptive eyes. “Rough night.” And it wasn’t even really because of Daniel. It was because of a total stranger. A totally hot and incredibly sexy stranger. Just some random guy he propositioned to distract himself from thinking about Daniel. The guy shouldn’t have had the power to hurt him, but god, had he. James was damn near floating on endorphins when they walked out of the washroom. But then, a woman with killer curves walked up to them with a look that spelled trouble and talk about a brutal fucking come down. Why the fuck did he even think the guy would be different? Just because he was hot as hell? He should’ve learned his lesson already.</p><p>He takes a bite of his donut under Jess’ watchful gaze. He’s such an idiot. He felt safe with the guy, wanted. After seeing Daniel waltzing with his wife—the wife he was supposedly in the middle of divorcing when he met James—he needed that so badly.</p><p>He owes those two guys who came crashing into the washroom more than they’ll ever know. They’re the only thing that saved him from complete and utter humiliation because he was just about to ask the guy for his number.</p><p>“Hey,” Jess says softly, putting a hand on his wrist. “Come on. Finish your donut. The sugar will do you good.”</p><p>He gives her a weak attempt at a smile. He can tell she’s trying to distract him when she pulls out her phone and starts reading him tidbits from gossip sites. He listens with half an ear as he chews determinedly and tries not to remember the feel of strong fingers in his hair and the rumble of a graveled voice in his ear.</p><p>“James!”</p><p>Jess’ shocked voice pulls him out of his reverie. “What?”</p><p>“Did you hear me?”</p><p>He shakes his head, feeling bad for getting caught not paying attention.</p><p><em>“Captain America </em>was at the dinner last night.”</p><p>“What?” He grabs for the phone. He stares at the screen for the very long moment it takes for his brain to accept what he’s seeing—the picture of a blond, bearded man together with a petite woman in top hat and a tuxedo.</p><p>The caption under the photo reads: Captain Steve Rogers and Ms. Natasha Romanoff.</p><p>No. No way. But those shoulders. Those lips. That beard. Those <em>eyes. </em>That fucking perfect cock that was still hard even though he came down James’ throat.</p><p>Holy. Fucking. Christ.</p><p>He propositioned Steve Rogers at a bar.</p><p>He gave <em>Steve Rogers </em>a blow job in the toilet stall of the fucking Mandarin Oriental Hotel.</p><p>So if the woman with Rogers was Natasha Romanoff, then that would mean—the stuck gears of his brain slowly start spinning up to speed—Rogers <em>wasn</em><em>’t </em>stepping out on his partner with James. Rogers may have refused to comment on the status of their relationship, but the idea of him cheating strikes James as so wrong on a visceral level that his face pulls into a grimace.</p><p>He rakes a hand through his hair. Steve Rogers. His brain breaks down again at the thought, does nothing but remind him what those thick, meaty fingers feel like wrapped around his cock. Fucking fuck. His entire body flushes with heat and his cock actually starts to chub up from the memories alone.</p><p>Coffee. He needs coffee to process this. He fumbles for his cup and takes a gulp that nearly scalds his mouth. “Fuck,” he gasps.</p><p>“What is that?!”</p><p>James twitches and stares at Jess, terrified that his filthy thoughts are emblazoned on his face. She’s terrifyingly perceptive and knows him too well. “What?”</p><p>Jess points at his neck. “That.”</p><p>He claps a hand to his neck. The hickey. The hickey that Captain Fucking America put there. Captain Fucking America marked him, and even before finding out that the guy was actually Steve Rogers, James was ready to strip naked and beg to be marked everywhere.</p><p>“What the fuck happened last night?” Her jaw drops open as worry floods her eyes. “James, no. Not the asshole.”</p><p>“No! No fucking way, Jess.” Not that he's never thought about it, seeing Daniel somewhere, having Daniel realize how much he still loves James. There’ll be a good grovel and he’ll beg to be taken back. Sometimes, when the nights are particularly lonely, James says yes. Mostly though, he tells Daniel to fuck right off.</p><p>“Then—?”</p><p>“I—” His eyes flick to the picture of Rogers and Romanoff on the phone. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, unable to think of what to say.</p><p><em>“Are you kidding me? </em>You’re telling me—” She flaps a hand at him. “You and—and—” She points from him to the phone.</p><p>James bites his lip.</p><p>Jess slaps her hands on the table, making the cutlery rattle. “Details. Now.”</p><p>“I—well. I saw Daniel and—Sandra.” He pulls a face at the way his voice still catches on her name even though she wasn’t the one at fault. “It was… hard.”</p><p>Seems like three months wasn’t quite enough time to get over someone he thought he could build a life with. But he’s getting there. And by this point, he barely even misses Daniel anymore. It’s more the betrayal of his trust that still hurts.</p><p>“Oh, James.” Jess wraps an arm around his shoulder and squeezes him.</p><p>“I’m okay.” He grips the hand on his shoulder and squeezes back. And most of the credit for that went to Rogers. He took care of James in just the way James needed him to. Heat uncoils inside him at the memory of exactly how Rogers took care of him. But underneath that heat is a softer warmth. It's ridiculous, and it’s probably wishful thinking, but he felt like Rogers knew he was hurting and wanted to ease that hurt. That, more than the sex, was the thing that helped the most.</p><p>“Okay, <em>now</em> the details.” Jess eyes him. “‘Cos that look on your face? I'm guessing those details are pretty juicy.”</p><p>James chokes. Things had certainly been… juicy. Not that he's about to tell Jess that. What happened with Rogers in that toilet stall felt private, personal, something he can’t even bring himself to share with Jess.</p><p>“Like I said, I saw <em>them</em>. And I didn't want to keep seeing them, so I went to the bar to get a drink. Then this guy walks up to the bar, like the opening to a fucking joke, but there's nothing funny about him. Those shoulders, Jess. Instant distraction.”</p><p>“You couldn't tell it was him?”</p><p>“Well, he had a mask on, <em>and</em> the beard.”</p><p>“And then?”</p><p>“I hit on him. Invited him to follow me to the john.” He drops his head into his hands. “Oh my god. I told Captain America that drowning my sorrows in dick is a tried and tested form of self-care.”</p><p>Jess smacks him on the arm and cackles for about two minutes straight.</p><p>“I hate you,” he mumbles.</p><p>“But it <em>worked,</em><em>” </em>Jess says, wiping her streaming eyes. She shakes her head. “I can’t believe it. Captain America. Who knew that paragon was so down and dirty? Picked up at a bar. A fucking <em>toilet stall.</em>”</p><p>It was dirty, yes, and raw, and Rogers completely took him apart. But after. God, <em>after</em>. Rogers cleaned him up and put him back together again with a gentleness and care that shifted something inside him, something he didn’t even know was misaligned.</p><p>“So it’s like that, is it?” Jess watches him, the amusement in her eyes replaced by worry. “Please tell me you got his number.”</p><p>“I wanted to, but…” He waves at the phone. “She came to look for him. I didn’t recognize either of them, so it was like history repeating itself.” He feels an echo of the humiliation he felt when he saw the gorgeous blonde heading for them, the anger at his own stupidity. He knows the truth now, but after what happened with Daniel, it’s still enough to leave his breakfast sitting uneasy in his stomach.</p><p>“Oh James,” Jess says, softly. “I should’ve gone with you.”</p><p>“You hate these things. Besides, <em>he</em> wasn’t supposed to be there.”</p><p>“Asshole,” Jess mutters. She takes a vicious bite of donut and chews furiously. “Can’t even fucking stick to his schedule.” She points the half-eaten donut at him. “You should call Rogers! You’ve had a crush on him since forever. You can’t pass up a chance like this!”</p><p>“Are you mad? He’s <em>Steve Rogers.</em><em>”</em></p><p>“Yeah, and you blew him in a toilet stall. So? Clearly he puts on his underwear one leg at a time like the rest of us—or takes it off.” She waggles her eyebrows at him. She is the worst sister.</p><p>"We didn't get that far." He slants her a look.</p><p>She gives the most inelegant snort and points at him. "Don't change the subject, <em>Bucky.</em><em>”</em></p><p>“Wow. Low blow, Jess.” He can feel himself turning red. “I haven’t made anyone call me that since I turned eight.” He’s not really sure when it started, but from what his mom told him, after seeing photos of a young Steve Rogers in a history book, he would answer only to that name. The nightmares started not long after that.</p><p>“You’ll regret it forever if you don’t. I’m sure Dad can get you his number. Or at least Tony Stark’s.”</p><p>James gapes at his certifiable sister. “You want me to get Tony Stark’s number from <em>Dad</em>, and then call <em>Iron Man </em>to ask him for Captain America’s number because I blew him in a toilet?”</p><p>“Stark is in no position to judge anyone for shit like that,” Jess says, with a careless shrug.</p><p>James snorts. “Okay. Fair. But still…” For about five seconds, he’s wildly tempted, but then reason kicks in. His dad will definitely ask why and just the thought of it is enough for him to consider moving to another state. “No. Absolutely not.”</p><p>“God.” Jess straightens up in her seat, her eyes going wide. “It’s almost like… fate, or something.”</p><p>“Come on, Jess.” A strange chill aches in his bones even as he scoffs at those words.</p><p>“I’m serious, James.” She leans forward, clearly taken with the idea. “Think about it. You’ve had a thing for Steve Rogers since you were a kid. And now this.”</p><p>James doesn’t even try to deny his fascination with Rogers. Everyone in his family knows about it. It makes him the easiest person to shop for. Then, round about the time his voice was starting to change, he remembers looking at a photo of Rogers in his Army uniform and just thinking, <em>Oh</em>. That was the beginning of his thing for blonds, specifically snarky, bossy blonds. He fell hard and fast and gave all of himself, and inevitably got his heart broken. Daniel was just the latest in a long line of them.</p><p>“There’s no such thing as fate,” he says. He pokes dispiritedly at his cup. “Besides, how do you think he’ll react to seeing my face. I look just like his dead best friend.” And wasn’t that a mindfuck when he started noticing the resemblance. “Remember him? The guy who died saving him? You don’t think that’s gonna freak him out a little?”</p><p> “Oh. God.” Jess stares at him for a full five seconds. “Shit.”</p><p>“Right. Shit.” He scrubs his hand over his face, the face that right now, he wishes looks like anyone else’s but James Buchanan Barnes’. “What a mess. Anyway. I can’t think about it now.” Which is a lie. He won’t be able to think of anything <em>else.</em> “I’ve still got to pack for Ian’s wedding.”</p><p>“Need a ride to the airport tomorrow?”</p><p>He nods as he takes a gulp of his coffee, grateful that Jess goes along with his change of subject.</p><p>“Enjoy Mauritius,” she says. “At least they decided against the winter wedding.”</p><p>“Oh god, yes.” James hates winter, hates the cold. “Instead, we have a photoshoot-ready beach wedding complete with white linen everything.” Ian is a great guy, but undeniably vain and not ashamed of it.</p><p>“Meow.” Jess smirks at him. She picks up her phone and continues scrolling. “Captain America really is your hero,” she says, wryly. “You’re not even stressed about Asshole Ex right now, are you.”</p><p>“Instead, I’m stressed about <em>him.</em><em>”</em></p><p>“That’s still a step up, right?”</p><p>James makes a sound that he’s not sure is a laugh. “I guess.” That plan to stop over in Dubai for a few days on his return trip is starting to look more and more attractive. The longer he can put off thinking about how he’s probably closed the door on any kind of fantasy of casually bumping into Rogers at some event, the better.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Steve walks into the briefing room with Sam, he finds Nat, Tony, and Clint already seated around the meeting table.</p><p>“You shaved,” Nat says, eyebrows going up in surprise.</p><p>Steve’s hand goes to his now-bare cheeks. “Felt like a change.”</p><p>“I thought I heard the resounding crack of a million hearts breaking around the world today.” Tony smirks and pops a blueberry in his mouth.</p><p>“No, Tony.” Steve takes a seat at the table. “I’m pretty sure that’s what’ll happen if you shave your goatee.”</p><p>“Please. Two million at least.”</p><p>Steve snorts. “I see your ego is in good health.” He eyes the empty spot at the head of the table. “Any idea why Maria called the meeting?”</p><p>“The Secretary of Defence has asked for our help to rescue the son of Simon DeWitt,” Maria says, walking in the door. “James DeWitt went missing two weeks ago from his hotel room in Dubai.”</p><p>“DeWitt’s kid went missing and there’s been no news in the media?” Tony straightens up in his chair, suddenly all business.</p><p>“It’s been kept very quiet.” Maria takes a seat. “No one has claimed responsibility and the alphabet agencies have been trying to locate him since then. They think they’ve found him.”</p><p>On a regular day, Maria is already hard to read, but for some reason, she’s on total lock down, and it’s making Steve wary. “Why us?”</p><p>“Because Ten Rings took him. DeWitt’s been championing money laundering legislation that would significantly curtail their access to funding. Since we’ve been working on shutting them down, the government asked for our help getting James DeWitt out.”</p><p>Maria’s gaze flicks to Steve for just a moment before she says, “JARVIS.”</p><p>An info screen glows to life in front of them. Prominently displayed on it is the photo of a young man. Steve stands up so fast his chair slams into the wall behind him. “Is this a joke?”</p><p>“I don’t get it,” Tony says, looking between Steve and the screen with a confused frown on his face.</p><p>Nat and Maria, though—they’re both watching him very carefully.</p><p>“James DeWitt, age twenty-five,” JARVIS says. “Born March 15<sup>th</sup>, 1991 to Michael DeWitt and Helen O’Connor. One sibling, Jessica DeWitt, born April 11<sup>th</sup>, 1989.” More photos flash up—a dignified-looking older man with graying hair, an older woman with blonde hair cut into a stylish bob, a young woman with long dark, brown hair with a strong resemblance to James. “Thirteen days ago, James DeWitt disappeared from his hotel room in Dubai.”</p><p>“No joke,” Maria says.</p><p>Bucky’s dead. Steve saw him fall, and it’s something he can never, ever get out of his head. Bucky’s dead. The guy in the photo isn’t Bucky—he can’t be Bucky. And yet... he’s Bucky. The same sweet charm that drew everyone to Bucky glows out of his eyes as he smiles like he has the world at his feet. That, finally, drives home the difference between the two men. By the end, Bucky couldn’t smile like that any more. The war had taken too much from him.</p><p>Steve sits down.</p><p>“Steve?” Sam watches him curiously. “You okay there?”</p><p>“I’m okay,” he says, gaze still fixed on the photo. Now that the initial shock has passed, he can see the differences between DeWitt and Bucky. The most obvious is the hair—short on the sides and long on the top, styled to look fashionably disheveled. The other differences are small, almost impossible to pick out unless someone had spent countless hours studying that face obsessively from all angles under the pretext of art. Someone like him.</p><p>That beautiful sharp jawline is the same, and DeWitt’s eyes crinkle up just like Bucky’s when he smiles. But the smile itself is different. Bucky never had teeth that straight—no twenty thousand dollar dentists to give him a picture-perfect smile back then. DeWitt looks like the physical ideal of what Bucky could’ve been if he grew up with regular, nutritious meals, and didn’t have to worry about chasing every dime to keep food on the table for his family, and sometimes, for Steve.</p><p>Two weeks, Steve thinks. DeWitt’s been missing for two weeks. He looks at DeWitt’s light-filled eyes and open smile and remembers how haunted and hollow Bucky looked when he thought no one was watching. A lot can happen in two weeks.</p><p>“When can we leave?”</p><p>“Steve,” Nat says.</p><p>“What am I missing here,” Tony says, looking between them.</p><p>“Whenever you’re ready,” Maria says, calm and inscrutable. “I can brief you on the way.”</p><p>Steve walks out of the room without waiting for the others. He’s not surprised when Nat catches up to him. “You knew.” He’s pissed enough he doesn’t look at her or slow down his pace as he walks.</p><p>“Fury asked me to keep an eye on you. I knew about your trips to the Smithsonian.”</p><p>“‘Knew about’,” he repeats, not bothering to keep the acid out of his tone. “You mean you followed me.”</p><p>“Steve.” She touches his arm. He stops and turns towards her, sees the apology in her eyes. “Yes, I followed you. Multiple times. I watched you stare at that photo of Barnes. I watched you sit in a dark room for hours watching an old, black and white clip of the two of you. Was I wrong to decide it was better you didn’t know there’s a guy walking around New York with your dead best friend’s face?”</p><p>Dead best friend.</p><p>She chose her words perfectly. Each one of them hits him with the force of a punch to the gut. And that, more than anything, suggests that she made the right call. Even now, knowing there’s a total stranger with Bucky’s face being held in a cave somewhere is making him want to rip something apart. The anger inside him hardens into something cold and focused.</p><p>“You weren’t wrong.”</p><p>“For what it’s worth,” she says, softly, regretfully, “I’m sorry I kept it from you.”</p><p>“Yeah, well. I wish I’d found out under better circumstances.”</p><p>Nat doesn’t say anything, because really, what is there to say.</p><p>“Let’s go,” Steve says. “I’m not leaving that guy there a moment longer than necessary.”</p><p>As he walks down the hallway, no matter how hard he tries, he can’t get the sight of Bucky strapped to that metal table out of his head.</p><p>*</p><p>Steve lies on his front just past the crest of the sand dune and peers down into the valley below. The cave mouth that leads into a warren of tunnels looks like nothing more than a pitch-black hole in the shadowed rock face of the hill. Somewhere in that warren is James DeWitt, along with about fifty members of Ten Rings according to their intel.</p><p>“You know,” Tony says, from next to him, “I swore never to set foot in a cave ever again.”</p><p>Steve slants a look at Tony, the light of the new moon enough to reveal the tightness around his eyes as he looks down at the cave opening. “You can sit this one out.” Steve knows about Tony’s time held captive by Ten Rings, he’s found him working late in his labs avoiding sleep more than once. Steve can relate. There are some nightmares that make him avoid sleep, too.</p><p>“Life is full of disappointment, Cap.” Tony slides back down the incline in a shower of hissing sand. “I’ll get over it.”</p><p>Not in the least bit surprised by that answer, Steve turns back to the cave. Nat’s inside setting up charges and trying to locate DeWitt. Even though she’s one of the most lethal people he’s ever met, it still makes him antsy knowing that she’s in there without support. It was worst when Bucky was the one alone without support, and it had usually been Bucky, off in some distant sniper nest, not even a spotter to watch his back. Steve could never breathe easy until Bucky was back by his side.</p><p>“I found him,” Nat says, subvocalizing into her throat mic. “They’re holding him in a dead-end tunnel near the south quadrant. Sending through coordinates now.”</p><p>“Received,” JARVIS says.</p><p>“You get through okay?” Steve asks. The plan was for Nat to sneak in through a ventilation tunnel and recon the place together with tiny bots controlled by JARVIS. The thick stone of the cave network made the signal strength patchy, so Nat had to be there to make sure the charges were properly deployed. </p><p>“I did. Good thing I had a light dinner though,” Nat says. “I nearly didn’t fit. You boys ready?”</p><p>Affirmatives sound off in Steve’s ear—Sam, Clint, Tony, Maria even though she's staying on the quinjet, ready to evacuate them as soon as they get out. “Now,” Steve says.</p><p>In the distance, muffled booms shatter the nighttime quiet of the desert. Angry shouts and panicked screaming follow. Tony and Sam take off into the air while he charges straight for the cave opening. Clint fades away into the darkness to join up with Nat in the cave. As Steve runs, he tries not to think too much about who he’s going in there to save. A civilian that needs help. That’s all.</p><p>He smashes into the confused sentries and then he’s past and into the cramped tunnels. With JARVIS’ soft-voiced instructions guiding him to DeWitt’s location, he navigates the dim, smoky chaos, knocking out anyone who tries to stop him.</p><p>“Just round the next corner, Captain,” JARVIS murmurs in his ear.</p><p>A peek around said corner shows him five men standing guard in front of a cell carved out of solid stone, their backs to the metal bars. They clutch nervously at their guns and peer into the gloom that the emergency lights struggle to penetrate. With his enhanced eyesight, Steve has the advantage, and he should capitalize on that before reinforcements arrive. Didn't take much to guess that DeWitt was the likely reason for the attack, after all.</p><p>He tightens his grip on the shield, holds it out in front of him like a battering ram and charges right for the guards. Clustered as they are like bowling pins in front of the cell, three of them get knocked out before they’ve even have a chance to register his presence. The other two go down in short order, not a single shot fired.</p><p>Then, he’s at the cell door. Two strikes from the edge of the shield and the lock gives way. Steve enters the cramped cell. For a terrible moment, he thinks their intel is botched—the guy lying on the bare mattress has lank, shoulder-length hair and his face is covered with a short beard. But then, he takes a closer look and there… the bridge of the nose, the shape of the brow—it’s DeWitt.</p><p>Steve crouches down next to him. Christ, are they too late? If all the commotion hasn’t managed to wake DeWitt…</p><p>He pushes long brown hair out of the way and puts a hand to DeWitt’s neck. The wiry hair of DeWitt’s beard prickles at his fingertips. After a moment, he feels it—a pulse—but weak and thready. Under the cover of his beard, DeWitt’s cheeks are gaunt and hollowed. His lips are pale and cracked. Ten Rings must be starving him and keeping him dehydrated so he won’t have enough strength to cause trouble. Cold rage flares as Steve remembers Bucky lying on a metal table, semi-delirious and weak. He places a careful hand on DeWitt’s shoulder, bones feeling too prominent to the touch, and gives him a gentle shake.</p><p>DeWitt’s eyes blink open and he stares up at the rough stone ceiling before turning to look at Steve. A smile blossoms on his face as his gray eyes light up. “Steve,” he whispers, groggily.</p><p>Every hair on Steve's body lifts up. “Bucky?”</p><p>DeWitt’s mouth opens—</p><p>“Cap!” Sam says over the comm. “You found him?” </p><p>It's almost a shock to hear Sam's voice in his ear. That voice belongs in another life, a life Steve never expected waking up to when he put the Valkyrie in the ice. </p><p>“Cap! Do you copy?” Sam says, a little breathlessly. “Tight corners in here, and a hell of a lot of men with guns!”</p><p>“Yeah, I copy.” Steve shakes his head. Not Bucky—James DeWitt. Not Zola’s lab—Ten Rings’ caves. “I found him.”</p><p>“Better get a move on,” Nat says. “We’ve got several squads headed your way.”</p><p>When Steve looks back down at DeWitt, he’s looking more alert. “Captain America,” he says, sounding almost disbelieving.</p><p>Something inside Steve dies a little at hearing that title coming from that face. “Time to go, kid.”</p><p>“I’m not a kid,” DeWitt manages, even though his words are slurred with exhaustion. “And my name is James.”</p><p>The guy can barely string his sentences together, but he can still give lip. It suddenly hurts to draw breath as Steve thinks of another guy who also hid away his pain behind a mask of wiseassery.“Can you walk?”</p><p>“I think so.” James tries to push himself up but his hand trembles with weakness.</p><p>Seeing that tremor makes Steve want to hurt someone. Badly. He puts an arm around painfully thin shoulders and helps James to sit up. He's so weak he can barely move his legs. Those fucking bastards were keeping him right on the threshold of starvation.</p><p>With Steve's arm supporting him, James manages to stand up. The generic gray sweatshirt and matching track pants he’s wearing hang loosely on his thin frame.</p><p>“What do you need me to do?” James says gamely as he sways on bare feet. His voice is rough, probably from a mix of disuse and dehydration.</p><p>The guy has heart, and somehow that thought nearly breaks Steve.</p><p>“We’ve got a straight run for the cave entrance. By now, everyone probably knows we're here for you. I'll take point. You follow my lead no matter what. Can you do that?”</p><p>James nods and straightens up with a wince. “Follow your lead, no matter what.” There's a strange twist to his mouth as he repeats the words, but Steve doesn't have time to wonder why as another explosion rumbles through the tunnels.</p><p>In his ear, Nat says, “We’re in position. We’ll cover you.”</p><p>“Let's go.”</p><p>Arm around James' waist, Steve leads them out into the main tunnel. James doesn't complain and he doesn't ask to slow down even though he can barely stay upright without Steve’s help, even though it must hurt to walk over the pebble-littered floor in his bare feet. He just tries his absolute best to keep up. The sudden sense memory of being back in a weapons factory in Austria is so strong that Steve has to bite the inside of his cheek hard to try to anchor himself in the present. The copper tang of blood floods his mouth.</p><p>They've made it about a quarter way back to the entrance when they meet the first sign of resistance. Three men come charging out from a side tunnel, assault rifles firing. Steve gets his shield up just in time, pulling Bu—James into its shelter. Bullets ricochet off the shield and into stone walls, spraying needle-sharp shards of stone down on them.</p><p>Two more men come out of the tunnel opposite. “We’re pinned down!” he yells into his comm. Sam yells something back but there's some kind of interference jamming the signal so all he can hear are broken fragments of words over the racket of guns firing.</p><p>“You still with me?” he shouts to James.</p><p>James nods, even though he’s leaning heavily on Steve’s arm. His pupils are dilated and his skin feels cold and clammy to the touch. There's no way Steve can get him through the blockade—he won't be able to move fast enough and he's so dehydrated he can't afford to lose much blood—but they can’t stay put. They’re sitting ducks and he doesn’t know when help will arrive.</p><p>“We’re gonna have to backtrack and find another way around.”</p><p>“You lead,” James says, “I'll follow.”</p><p>The trust in his voice settles like a yoke on Steve's soul. He needs to get James out safe or he might never be the same again. He failed Bucky. He can't fail again. Tightening his grip around James’ waist, he backs down the tunnel in the direction they came, half-carrying James with him. The gunmen are still firing away, but with the amount of dust they’ve kicked up, Steve’s hoping they can’t see well enough to tell that their targets have faded back into the gloom.</p><p>“I'm slowing you down,” James says, voice thready and weak.</p><p>“Hey.” Steve pins James with his gaze. “I am not leaving you behind.” The very thought of it feels like acid on his skin.  “No matter what, you hear me?”</p><p>Silvery gray eyes stare into his for one breathless, endless moment. “Okay,” James says, finally.</p><p>“Okay,” Steve repeats. “Come on.”</p><p>They come to a section of tunnels that branches off in two different directions. The right tunnel will take them back to the cell, which is a deadend. The left tunnel <em>should</em> loop them back round to the entrance. He’s just about to head towards it when someone charges out of the other tunnel and starts firing.</p><p>*</p><p>Months later, Steve will still be haunted by the sequence of events that follow. He’ll spend hours going over it wondering if there was anything he could’ve done to prevent it. But then and there, all he knows is that someone’s coming at them from the tunnel on the right, yelling and shooting.</p><p>James shouts “Watch out!” and shoves the shield away from himself towards Steve as someone on the left starts firing at him. It leaves James’ left side exposed just as a Molotov cocktail smashes into the wall behind them, thrown by a guy who snuck up on them from behind. James screams, high and hread, as the incendiary liquid soaks the sleeve of his sweatshirt and ignites.</p><p>No, oh god, no.</p><p>Bullets ricochet off the shield as Steve hunkers down and pulls James closer into its shelter and slaps at the flames to put them out. He can barely feel the heat through his leather-protected palms, but the sound of James’ screams and the smell of burned flesh makes his stomach roil.</p><p>“—Cap! Can you hear me?” The comm cuts back on suddenly, partway through Sam’s shout.</p><p>“Yes! Where the fuck are you guys? James is hurt, and we’re pinned down!”</p><p>“We’ve got your location,” Nat says. “We’re coming to you. ETA two minutes.”</p><p>Steve checks on James. He’s passed out, thank god, his face pale and slack. Through the tatters of his burned sleeve, the skin of his arm looks raw and charred in places.</p><p>“Hurry,” he shouts, over the barrage of what sounds like an entire weapons depot being unloaded on his shield. He knows they’re hurrying, but he can’t help himself. <em>Save him. Save him. Save him. </em> The need beats at him relentless as a drum.</p><p>His arm is starting to ache with the strain of holding the shield up under the assault when he hears the sound of repulsor blasts getting closer. He looks up to see Tony clanking his way through the tunnel, firing away as bullets ricochet off him in all directions. Guy sure knew how to build a damned good suit. Tightening his grip on the shield, he tugs James closer in case they get taken out by a stray bullet.</p><p>A few more repulsor blasts and the hail of bullets end. Through the ringing in his ears, Steve can hear the muted groans of injured men. </p><p>“Did you miss me?” Tony says.</p><p>“No time for that. We need to get James to a hospital.”</p><p>“Ah, shit,” Tony says, all business when he catches sight of James lying unconscious in Steve’s arms. “Stay behind me.”</p><p>“I’ve got your back,” Sam says. He’s walking backwards towards them, guns up and firing. His metal wings curve around him to form a shield around his body. “Go!”   </p><p>Steve stands up cradling James. He’s so thin he weighs almost nothing. Staying right behind Tony, they manage to make it all the way to the entrance with no further damage. The quinjet descends from above to hover nearby while Steve runs up the lowered ramp.</p><p>“Get the med kit,” Steve yells. He lays James out on the pallet Maria’s put on the floor.</p><p>“We’ll be up front if you need us.” Nat gives his shoulder a comforting pat as Clint and her squeeze past him to get to the cockpit. “Give you guys more space to work. Tony’s flying back on his own.”</p><p>Steve nods distractedly as he checks James’ pulse. Too fast. He’s going into shock—</p><p>“Steve.” Sam rests his hand on Steve’s shoulder. “I got this.”</p><p>Steve has a sudden urge to slap Sam’s hand away. It’s so out of the blue that it shocks him into taking a deep breath. Christ, he needs to keep it together. He steps aside to let Sam crouch down next to James in the cramped hold of the ‘jet. Sam used to be a PJ. Of the two of them, Sam’s actually qualified to help James. Of the two of them, Sam isn’t compromised.</p><p>“Is he—” Steve says.</p><p>“Vitals are weak, but stabilizing,” JARVIS says, anticipating his question. “Mr DeWitt also shows early signs of malnutrition and dehydration. Third degree burns to the left arm. I have contacted Weill Cornell Medicine to prepare a place for him in their burn unit.”</p><p>“If he’s stabilizing already, that’s a good sign.” Sam peels back James’ eyelid and shines a light into his eye. “We’re still hours away from New York.”</p><p>“We should get him to the closest hospital,” Steve snaps.</p><p>“Hey,” Sam looks up, frowning with concern. “You okay?”</p><p>“He’s hurt, Sam. He should be in a hospital right now.”</p><p>“He’s not bleeding, he’s stable. Let’s get him to one of the best burn units in New York. Then we can all keep an eye on him in case Ten Rings tries to get to him again, okay?”</p><p>Sam’s voice is careful and pitched low and soothing. He sounds like he’s talking to a spooked animal. That’s when Steve realizes he’s looming over Sam with his fists clenched. “Shit.” He takes a step back. “I’m sorry.”</p><p>“You wanna tell me what’s up with you and DeWitt? You looked like you saw a ghost when his photo came up.”</p><p>“A ghost.” Steve laughs, sharp and bitter, his gaze riveted to James’ unconscious form. “You could say that.”</p><p>“You’re really starting to worry me here,” Sam says, as he immobilizes James’ hand so he won’t injure himself more.</p><p>Steve unslings the shield and props it against the bench before taking a seat. The smell of singed leather teases at his nostrils. It makes bile rise in his throat. “I had a best friend.” He rips his gloves off and stuffs them into a locker under the bench. “He died because he tried to keep me safe. He did that all his life—tried to keep me safe. And when it was my turn... I didn’t keep him safe.”</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Sam says. His eyes flick up to Steve even as his hands move surely and swiftly to set up an IV line for James. There’s sympathy in his look, and understanding. After he checks James’ feet for injuries, he takes a seat on the opposite bench.</p><p>“James,” Steve says. “He looks just like him. Like Bucky.”</p><p>Sam’s gaze snaps to the gaunt young man lying on the floor of the quinjet. “Fuck.”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>There’s an old sadness in Sam’s eyes when he turns away to unclip his wings. Steve wasn’t the only one who watched, helpless, as his best friend fell to his death. God, what a pair they are.</p><p>“James was doing it, too,” he says. At Sam’s confused look, he clarifies, “Trying to keep me safe.” He looks down at his reddened fingertips, the pain of the burn already starting to recede. They’ll be fully healed by the time the ‘jet touches down in New York. “I wasn’t on top of my game. Didn’t notice a guy coming out of one of the tunnels. James pushed the shield towards me.” The shield again. Always the goddamned shield. “Left himself exposed.” He nods at the burn on James’ arm. “That’s on me.”</p><p>“Steve.”</p><p>“You’re gonna tell me it’s not my fault. That he made a choice.” A bombed-out bar. A crisp, British accent. Another friend trying to soothe the ache of his failure. “Someone tried that already. Didn’t really help the first time.”</p><p>Sam nods, friend to friend. “I get that,” he says, and lets the matter drop. He’s never tried to be Steve’s counselor, something for which Steve is grateful. Counselors, therapists—those he can find if he needs them. Good friends are much harder to come by and all the more precious for it.</p><p>“We’ve got a few hours till we’re back in the city,” Steve says. “You should get some rest.” When Sam glances down at James, lying pale and wan on the pallet, Steve adds, “I’ll wake you if he wakes.”</p><p>Sam gives him a look that says he can tell that the suggestion is motivated by a need to be alone as much as by concern for his wellbeing. But he nods all the same and lies down on the bench. Like many soldiers, Sam can fall asleep anywhere.</p><p>One hour into the journey—one hour into Steve reliving again and again the moment when Bucky picked up the shield, when James pushed the shield towards him, spinning endless scenarios where he reacted faster, moved in the right direction—James starts to shift on the pallet. He tries to move his arm, tugging at it to free himself from the tape binding it to his side.</p><p>“Hey. James.” Steve drops to his knees next to him. “Don’t do that. It’s taped down for a reason.”</p><p>Sam startles awake at the sound of Steve’s voice and sits up, immediately alert. He makes ‘keep him distracted’ movements with his hand as he quietly sorts through the med kit for something.</p><p>“My arm,” James gasps, voice thin with panic. His heart-achingly familiar eyes are full of a terror that makes Steve’s flesh creep. “What’s wrong with my arm?”</p><p>“You got burned,” Steve says. “Someone threw a Molotov cocktail at you.”</p><p>“No.” James starts to shake his head, almost frantic now as he struggles to free his arm. “Please, not my arm. <em>Steve.</em>” He clutches at Steve with his free hand. “Don’t let them take my arm.”</p><p>Steve clamps his hand over James’ left hand, trapping it so James can’t pull it free from its bindings. “It’s okay, James,” he says, trying for a soothing voice even though James’ strange terror is starting to infect him with a cold unease. “You’re going to be fine. We’re getting you to a hospital. No one is going to take your arm, I promise you.”</p><p>Sam kneels down opposite James with a syringe in his hand as Steve pins James’ thrashing body to the pallet. “Look at me,” Steve orders. Miraculously, James stills and looks up at him with eyes dilated by fear. “I promise you. I swear it. No one is going to take your arm. I’ll be with you all the way. Anyone looks at your arm funny and they’ll have to answer to me, you got it?”</p><p>James gasps as Sam slips the needle into his arm. After a few moments, his eyelids start to droop. “Steve,” he whispers, voice starting to slur as the sedative takes effect, eyes beginning to go unfocused.</p><p>Steve feels like he’s been dipped in ice. The way James says his name—familiar in his mouth like he’s been saying it all his life—Bucky said his name exactly the same way.</p><p>“Why didn’t you come for me?” James says, sounding hurt and bewildered. “I waited for you…” His voice trails off as the sedative takes effect and he slips into sleep.</p><p>Steve collapses back as all the strength leaves his muscles.</p><p>“What the fuck,” Sam says. He looks at James then up at Steve. “You sure you never met this guy before?”</p><p>“Trust me.” Steve stares down at James with something like dread churning in his gut. “I definitely would’ve remembered.”</p><p>For some reason, he gets a flash of memory of a toilet stall, the tiny choked-off sound of a guy desperately trying not to come just because Steve told him not to. Christ. It isn’t the first time he’s been ambushed by memories of what was probably the single hottest experience of his life, but here and now is really not the time.</p><p>“You think he’s some kind of Number One Fan?”</p><p>“No.” The answer comes quick and instinctive. “He’s a good kid.” But then he remembers the odd way James had said “You lead, I’ll follow” and a little seed of doubt starts to sprout. Sometimes he hates his near-photographic memory.</p><p>“You’re not so sure, are you.” Sam frowns down at James. “’Cause that was weird. Calling you by your name, expecting you in particular to come save him. Seems like some kinda fixation thing.”</p><p>“I don’t know.” He studies James, as though that can give him some clue, but all he can see is a similarly thin and ragged-looking Bucky on a metal table in a weapons factory in Kreischberg. “He’s a good kid,” he repeats, because he trusts his gut, and that’s what his gut is telling him. It’s rarely wrong. It wasn’t wrong about Rumlow and Rollins. His mistake was in not trusting himself more after he came out of the ice, unsure of his footing in the modern world he woke up in.</p><p>But the way James spoke to him, with the weight of years of history and affection… as Sam said, that was weird. Maybe James knows he looks exactly like Bucky. What would it do to him, knowing he’s the very image of Captain America’s best friend?</p><p>He made a promise to James, and he’ll keep it. But after that… after that he’ll stay away. For both their sakes.</p><p>*</p><p>There’s a team of paramedics already waiting for them when the quinjet touches down on the roof of the hospital. With swift, efficient movements, two of them load James onto a stretcher while a third one nods and takes notes as Sam briefs them on James’ condition.</p><p>Steve is about to follow the stretcher down the ‘jet’s ramp into the bright noonday sun when Sam catches him by the arm with a worried frown on his face.</p><p>“Steve.”</p><p>“I made him a promise, Sam.”</p><p>“Come on, man. No one’s cutting off his arm. It’s a burn. A bad one, sure. But it’ll heal.”</p><p>Steve gently pulls his arm free. “I gotta do this.” He gives Sam what he hopes is a reassuring smile. “I’ll make sure he’s okay, talk to the doctors, then I’ll head back. You can even send a car for me if it’ll make you feel better.”</p><p>Sam points a finger at him. “Don’t think I won’t.”</p><p>A movement behind Sam catches Steve’s eye. It’s Nat, standing at the top of the ramp watching them and looking even more worried than Sam. The rest of the team might’ve missed that moment in the cave when Bucky’s name had slipped out, but not Nat. He nods at her like he knows what he's doing and follows after James.</p><p>The thing about being Captain America is that it opens a lot of doors—no one questions his presence as he accompanies James all the way to the burn unit. He gets some curious looks but he stands at ease, looks straight ahead and puts on his ‘I have a mission to complete’ face. It almost always works to keep questions at bay, and it works this time as well. It also helps stop him from staring fixedly at James like a weirdo.</p><p>When they push through the swing doors of the burn unit, three people sitting in the waiting area lurch upright and rush towards the stretcher. James’ parents and sister—looking far more haggard and strained than Steve remembers from the briefing photos. Only the presence of a nurse holding them back keep them from crowding around. Steve hangs back, trying to stay out of the way as they keep pace with James until he’s pushed past a second set of doors leading into the treatment area. It’s only when the doors stop swinging that anyone notices him.</p><p>James’ sister strides towards him while her father follows behind at a more sedate pace, his arm around his quietly crying wife. Jessica DeWitt is tall, nearly as tall as James, and she looks so much like James, and therefore Bucky, that Steve’s chest hurts. “What happened to him?” she demands, her eyes swollen and her face puffy from crying. “You were supposed to save him!”</p><p>From behind her, arm still around his wife, Michael DeWitt says, “Jessica.” It saves Steve from having to come up with a reply. DeWitt is a tall, distinguished-looking man with salt-and-pepper hair that looks like he’s raked his fingers through it one too many times. His eyes are a gray a few shades darker than his son’s and he’s dressed in a work shirt and pants like he came straight from the office. “He did. He brought James home to us.” To Steve, he says, “Thank you, Captain.” Mrs. DeWitt clutches her tissue and nods at Steve with silent gratitude in her wet eyes.</p><p>Jessica turns to face her father, her dark brown hair swinging out behind her. “But his <em>arm</em>, Dad.” Her voice nearly vibrates with anger but underneath it is worry and fear. Steve’s reminded again of James’ terror over losing his arm.</p><p>“It was just a childhood fear, Jess.”</p><p>“No,” Jessica bites out. “It’s not. His dreams—”</p><p>“Jessica,” Mrs. DeWitt says, in a tired but firm voice. “Michael.”</p><p>Father and daughter both give Mrs. DeWitt identical sheepish looks. Mrs. DeWitt might look almost fragile with her slight build and delicate features, especially compared to her tall daughter and even taller husband, but the steel in her voice has them both backing down.</p><p>DeWitt sighs. “I’m sorry, Captain. We’re all—” He waves his hand, a politician lost for words. Steve thinks better of him for it. “We’re very grateful for your help.”</p><p>“I’m sorry I couldn’t protect him better, Mr. DeWitt. He was injured trying to protect me.”</p><p>Mrs. DeWitt’s watery blue eyes go wide as she loses whatever color she’s regained. “Oh James...”</p><p>“He was terrified his arm would be amputated,” Steve says. The three of them exchange glances at this statement, distress plain on Mrs. DeWitt’s and Jessica’s faces, but none of them offer an explanation for James’ fear even though there clearly is one. “I promised I’d make sure that didn’t happen.”</p><p>“I’m sure he found that very comforting,” Mrs. DeWitt says, with a strange gravity to her words.</p><p>Steve nods, not quite sure what to make of that. “Please,” he says, waving at the waiting room seats and feeling incredibly awkward, “I’m sure you’re all exhausted.”</p><p>Mrs. DeWitt nods gratefully, but before she turns away, she grips his wrist with her fine-boned hand. “You’ll stay?”</p><p>Feeling caught out, Steve says, “Until the doctors report back. But after that, I need to get back to my team.”</p><p>“Of course.” Mrs. DeWitt smiles, but it’s paper-thin, barely hiding her disappointment. “Thank you. It would mean so much to James.”</p><p>James’ parents and sister reclaim their seats while Steve sits down opposite them. The nagging suspicion that Sam is right about James is getting harder to shake.</p><p>“How was he,” Jessica asks, “when you found him? Was he…” She hunches into her oversized pullover and pulls the sleeves over her hands. The greenish-white glow of the fluorescent lights reveal dark shadows under her eyes. “Did they—”</p><p>Steve straightens in his seat. “He looked exhausted. Weak. I couldn’t see any signs of injury.” Which is not to say there weren’t any. But how the hell does he say that to James’ family? He looks around, hoping that a doctor will materialize to answer all their questions. “He was alert, though. And very brave.”</p><p>Silent tears roll down Mrs. DeWitt’s face as she nods and pulls her cardigan tighter around herself. “Thank you.”</p><p>Like an answer to Steve’s prayer, a doctor walks out of the burn unit in surgical scrubs—a stocky, Asian man with graying hair. “I’m Dr. Chen,” he says. “James is in stable condition, but in early stages of malnutrition.”</p><p>“His arm—?” Mr. DeWitt says.</p><p>“Third degree burns covering about six percent of total body surface area. We’re prepping him for surgery now.”</p><p>“Surgery?” Jessica shoots to her feet.</p><p>“Just to remove the burned tissue,” Dr. Chen says, in a placating tone. “It will help the healthy tissue to heal faster. After he’s better, we can talk about skin grafts to cover the burned areas.”</p><p>“But he’ll be okay?” Mr. DeWitt asks.</p><p>“He will,” Dr. Chen says, with the kind of calm assurance that spoke of years of experience. “He’s young and healthy. His prognosis is good.”</p><p>“Thank you, Doctor.”</p><p>Dr. Chen nods to all of them and strides back through the swing doors. Steve gets to his feet. “I should get back to my team.” He looks at all of them as he speaks, catching a flash of disappointment on Mrs. DeWitt’s face that she’s quick to conceal.</p><p>“Of course,” Mr. DeWitt says, standing up to shake Steve’s hand. “Thank you very much. To you, and all your team. You brought our James back to us.”</p><p>Steve nods. “We were happy to help.” They stand awkwardly for a moment before Steve clears his throat. “I’m sorry, but I really have to go.” Every instinct in his body screams that he's making a mistake as he turns around.</p><p>No matter how hard he tries to convince himself that it's not Bucky he's walking away from, his heart refuses to accept it. Only the conviction that staying away is what’s best for James keeps him moving forward even though he feels like he’s leaving a vital part of himself behind with every step he takes. Bucky is dead—entombed in an icy grave somewhere in the Austrian Alps. He died cold and alone. Steve was supposed to have as well.</p><p>*</p><p>James wakes up with a scream ringing in his ears. Underneath it is the sticky wet sound of a bone saw cutting through flesh and gristle and bone. Just a dream, he chants in his head, thoughts slow and fuzzy like they’re rising up from the congealed depths of his consciousness. Just a dream. He’s not strapped down, there aren’t men with surgical instruments trying to cut off his arm. There’s no way he can miss the fact that his left arm is still there since it hurts—even if it’s a strange, deadened kind of pain—but he looks anyway. He never did quite shake the habit of checking whenever he has that particular nightmare.</p><p>In the dim light of the hospital room, he can just make out the bandages covering his arm all the way down to his wrist. He remembers flames, pain, a shield, and… and Captain America. His eyes ache with the hot pressure of tears as he stares up at the ceiling—the ceiling that’s not rough-hewn rock, just like the mattress beneath him is not thin and lumpy and always full of sand. His gaze flicks to the closed door. He feels a sudden irrational need to check that it’s not locked, that there aren’t armed men standing guard outside, that he can get up and walk out the door if he wants to.</p><p>He looks around the room and spots the shape of a person curled up in a chair in the corner. A name slips out. “Steve?”</p><p>The person in the chair stirs. Not Steve. Jess. Of course it’s Jess. Why would Steve Rogers be sitting by his bedside? It’s ridiculous to expect that. Steve is a stranger to him no matter what a mad, stubborn little corner of his heart insists. And it’s stupid that he’s disappointed it’s Jess. It’s Jess, for fuck’s sake. His big sister. His person.</p><p>“Hey,” he croaks. “Wake up.”</p><p>Jess twitches and jerks up in the chair. “James?”</p><p>“No,” he manages. “Santa Claus.”</p><p>“Oh my god.” Jess rushes to his bedside. “Fuck you.” She reaches out like she wants to hug him, then thinks better of it and settles for gripping his right hand hard enough to hurt. “You fucking scared me, you idiot.”</p><p>“I’m sorry.”</p><p>“Don’t you dare.”</p><p>Now that she’s standing next to the bed, he can see how thin and haggard she looks. “I’m okay, Jess.”</p><p>“Are you?” She brushes his fringe off his forehead.</p><p>He closes his eyes and tries not to think of his kidnapping. Three men in his hotel room holding him down. Trying to break free and failing and failing and failing. The sickly-sweet smell of the cloth over his nose and mouth. Waking up in the cargo hold of a plane flying to god knows where, surrounded by hostile men with guns.</p><p><em>Stop it. </em>He squeezes his eyes shut until bursts of purple flare against his eyelids. Thank god for the good drugs making everything feel far away, distant and removed like it happened to someone in show he watched. He knows it’ll all come crashing back later, and then he’ll either scream or cry or shut down, but for now, he would much rather not think about any of it.</p><p>“My arm,” he says, choosing to misinterpret her question. “What’s the damage?”</p><p>“Third degree burns on most of it,” Jess says, in a voice that almost succeeds at being steady. “You went straight into surgery to remove the burned sections. That’s why it’s all bandaged. Once it’s better, they’ll graft new skin on to help the healing.”</p><p>James nods, stomach churning a little faster at the thought of what the recovery will be like. Long and painful, most probably. “At least I still have it, right?” He tries to smile.</p><p>“Hey.” Jess tightens her grip on his hand. “It’s me. I know what you’re doing. Do you want to talk about it? About what happened?”</p><p>A sharp, ragged sound escapes him. “Not really, no.”</p><p>“Anne knows you’re back. She said to call her any time, night or day, if you need to talk.”</p><p>The thought of peeling himself open to talk to his therapist sends a shudder through him. He needs to do it, and if he trusts anyone to be patient, it's Anne. She spent years listening to him talk about Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers without judgment, there's no one safer. But not yet. His silence is enough to have Jess moving on from the topic, for which he’s grateful.</p><p>“Are you hungry? Thirsty?”</p><p>When he was stuck in that cave, stomach cramping with hunger, mouth gritty with sand, he couldn’t stop thinking of custard tarts and croissants and gelato and a good, juicy rib-eye steak. But right now, the very thought of food makes him want to vomit. “Thirsty.”</p><p>“Okay,” Jess says. “Here, let me just—” She pushes a button to raise the bed so James is half sitting up, then she holds the cup for him while he sips water through a straw. It helps soothe his parched mouth but he can still taste sand in the back of his throat. It's probably all in his head, but he can't shake it. It got into everything—the food, the water, his clothes. He has a sudden, almost panicked need to bathe, to scrub until there’s not one single grain of sand left on his skin.</p><p>“Thanks,” he mutters. He slumps back on the pillow exhausted just from holding himself upright enough to drink water.</p><p>Jess sets the cup aside and holds his right hand. She stares at it, seemingly at a loss for words. It’s such a rare thing for her, but right now, the quiet is nice.</p><p>“How long was I… gone?”</p><p>“Just over two weeks,” she says, softly. “It’s Tuesday now, tenth of May.”</p><p>It’s his turn to squeeze her hand as he carefully, tentatively, lets himself believe that he's safe, he's home. He tries very hard not to think about Steve Rogers.</p><p>“He said he made you a promise,” Jess says.</p><p>So much for not thinking about Steve Rogers. “A promise?”</p><p>“About your arm.”</p><p>His arm?</p><p>He remembers the sudden panic, the absolute conviction that he was going to end up on a table getting his arm sawn off. He remembers grabbing at Steve, making him promise not to let anyone cut off his arm.</p><p>Oh.</p><p>Oh fuck. His face burns with shame. He must’ve come off sounding like a total fucking weirdo.</p><p><em>“That</em> promise.” He holds back a bitter laugh. “I was pretty out of it by that point,” he adds, as though it would excuse his stupid impulse. “Wait.” He stares at Jess as the implication of her words sinks in. “You saw him?”</p><p>Jess nods. “He came down in the lift with you, waited till a doctor came out to speak to us. He only left after that.” She squeezes his hand. “Seemed pretty determined to keep his promise to you.”</p><p>
  <em>Don</em>
  <em>’t ask. Don’t. You’re being stupid.</em>
</p><p>“Did he… leave a message for me?”</p><p>“Oh, god. Yeah, he did.” Jess rushes back to her chair and retrieves an envelope from her bag, a space of time that feels endless as James lies frozen in the bed. “A guy dropped this off here and said it was for you.” She hesitates as she glances at his bandaged arm. Then, she pulls out the letter, unfolds it carefully, and hands it to him.</p><p>James feels something almost like the terror of free-fall as he makes himself look down at the letter.</p><p>
  <em>Dear James, </em>
</p><p>
  <em>I hope you</em>
  <em>’re doing well after your surgery. From what I gather, your recovery process will be long and difficult, but from the little time we’ve spent together, I know you have more than enough strength and courage to get through it to the other side. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>I don</em>
  <em>’t know if you remember this, but you were injured while protecting me in the cave. I am deeply grateful to you, but also very much regret that you got hurt in the process. If there is anything I can do to help you with your recovery, please let me know.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Sincerely,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Steve Rogers</em>
</p><p>The letter is written in a neat, careful, cursive script that James recognizes from the few samples of Steve’s handwriting available to the public. James folds up the letter and hands it back to Jess for safekeeping.</p><p>“Do you want to write him a reply?”</p><p>James shakes his head. “I don’t think I’m supposed to.” Despite the closing sentence, there was nothing in that aggressively formal and impersonal letter that invited a reply. It was a firmly-closed door to the face and it <em>hurt</em>. At the gathering frown on Jess’ face, he shrugs. “It’s fine,” he says. “I’m just some guy he had to save.” Another person that Captain America stepped up to help. There must be hundreds of people just like him that’ve passed through Steve’s life. Anyway, what would he even say? You’re welcome? Thanks for saving my life, too? Knowing his mother, she’s probably sent a thank you note to the Avengers for that. That was response enough.</p><p>“Did he recognize you?”</p><p>“From the ball? No.” He doesn't know if he dreamed that moment when Steve had called him Bucky in the cave. By then, he was so weak and exhausted that he sometimes couldn't tell the difference between dream and reality.</p><p>Jess gives him an odd look, clearly hearing the uncertainty in his answer, but he turns his head away. He’s not ready to talk about any of it. “I’m tired,” he says, which isn’t even a lie.</p><p>“Okay.” A warm hand cups his shoulder, gives it a gentle squeeze. “Rest. I’ll be here when you wake. Mom and Dad, too, probably. I made them go home to sleep, but they’ll be here first thing in the morning.”</p><p>“Thank you,” he whispers. It’s honestly a relief that sleep claims him as fast as it does.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>2018</strong>
</p><p>Steve checks the time as Nat combs something goopy through his hair—clay, or mud, or glue, or some other weirdly euphemistic word. Just past six thirty in the evening. They should probably make a move soon if they don’t want to be late for the charity dinner. The thought of what the evening has in store for him has him slumping down a little further in his seat.</p><p>“Bad night?” Nat asks, without taking her eyes off her hands.</p><p>He huffs. “That obvious?” He looks at his reflection in the dresser mirror before his gaze slides away. He never likes to look at his reflection for too long because sometimes the face in the mirror still looks wrong to him.</p><p>“For you? Yes.” She meets his eyes in the mirror. “Bad dreams again?”</p><p>“You could say that.”</p><p>He woke up around three that morning and knew there was no point trying to get back to sleep, not when his body buzzed with the restless energy that always accompanies one of <em>those</em> dreams. After two years, he knows that the only way to deal with it is to burn it off with exercise. It’s just that for some reason, the past week was worse than usual.</p><p>“You ever consider talking to a therapist about them?”</p><p>He pulls a face at the suggestion.</p><p>“I take it that's a no?”</p><p>“Oh, I thought about it.”</p><p>And it's true. He did. But actually talking to a therapist will mean telling a stranger that after meeting James DeWitt, his dreams of Bucky have increased from a few times a year to a few times a month, and that sometimes he's not even sure if it's Bucky he’s dreaming about, or James. There’s no way he wants to get into that. Sure, it might be because of the resemblance, but something about James reminds Steve so much of Bucky that it scares him. James tried so hard to keep up during the rescue, pushing through pain and fear and exhaustion. He even put himself in danger to protect Steve. Exactly as Bucky would’ve done—<em>had done</em>. And that had ended up costing Bucky his life.</p><p>Then there was the other thing involving another charity event which he doesn't even want to dwell on, much less talk about.</p><p>“But I decided against it,” he says, finally.</p><p>“Surprise, surprise.” She gives him a sardonic look, but her smile tells him she understands. Not like she has a therapist on call either. Some people just white-knuckle it. “Now quit fidgeting, Rogers.” She combs her fingers through his hair, tweaking and twisting and adjusting until she makes a satisfied sound. “There. Perfect.” With a fierce glare, she adds, “Don’t touch it. You’ll only mess it up.”</p><p>Steve drops his hand, feeling like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Sam should be here soon. I guess I should—”</p><p>“Suit up?” Nat says.</p><p>Steve snorts as he pulls on his tuxedo jacket. Perfect choice of words. He’s going to be standing on stage and trying to look as attractive as possible in front of an audience full of New York’s elite to raise funds for the VA’s bachelor auction. The thought of it alone makes him want to hide behind about ten layers of armor. At least he won't be in booty shorts while he hawks his wares. Small blessings. He'll take them wherever he can find them.</p><p>As they head for the door, he takes one last look at himself in the hallway mirror to make sure his bow tie is straight. Nat’s really worked some kind of magic with his hair. It's a little spiky, a little messy, a lot fashionable. That’s one layer of armor right there.</p><p>“You should mingle a little.” Nat drapes her wrap around her shoulders and gives him a pointed look. “I know you know how.”</p><p>The teasing tone in her voice tells him exactly what she's referring to. Which is exactly the thing he's been avoiding thinking about. “That didn’t work out so well for me,” he says, because sometimes he dreams of heated skin under his fingers, the hot silk of another man’s mouth around his cock, and the rock solid certainty that the face behind the mask is Bucky's. Or James’. His dream self seems to think Bucky and James and John are all the same person, and it kind of pisses him off that his own mind would betray Bucky’s memory that way.</p><p>It’s made for a pretty confusing—and lonely—time. Can’t get over losing Bucky, can’t forget a guy who was only interested in an anonymous quickie, can’t get to know someone he’s interested in because that might feed James’ possibly unhealthy fixation on him. He can’t help but feel it’s exactly what he deserves.</p><p>“Come on,” he says, avoiding Nat’s curious gaze as he opens the front door. “The car’s waiting.”</p><p>*</p><p>Steve’s only on the fourth bite of the main course when his phone buzzes with a message from Sam. <em>You</em><em>’re up to bat.</em> With a mournful look at the perfectly grilled medium rare steak still weeping red juice onto the plate, he takes a last sip of wine and wipes his mouth.</p><p>“Break a leg.” Clint toasts him with a smug smile.</p><p>“Your turn soon enough.”</p><p>“Yeah, but I get to finish my steak first.” At Steve’s mock-frown, he adds, “Hey, if you’re not gonna finish that steak anyway…”</p><p>Steve can’t help but laugh as he gets up. “Knock yourself out.”</p><p>He presents himself to Maude, the stern-looking Vietnam vet in charge of corralling the volunteers up for auction. After receiving his instructions, he goes to wait by the side of the stage. Sam, looking harried but very dashing in his tuxedo, finds him a few minutes later.</p><p>Sam eyes him for a long moment. “You look like shit, man.”</p><p>“Thanks.”</p><p>“What did I say about getting your beauty sleep? We are trying to make big bucks tonight! You're the star attraction, Cap.”</p><p>“Tell that to Tony.” Steve points at the stage where Tony is hovering about two feet above it. His legs are encased in the signature red and gold of his Iron Man suit and his arms are widespread as if to say get a load of this glory. Over the sound system, Nat’s distinctive voice slyly eggs the bidders to go ever higher by somehow getting them to stake their egos on winning the auction.</p><p>“He’s not single,” Sam says. “You are. We’re selling <em>dreams</em>, my friend.”</p><p><em>“You’re </em>single. And a dreamboat.”</p><p>Sam punches him on the arm. “Nice try. Still not gonna get you off the hook. Get out there,” he says, as Nat announces the winning bid of ten thousand dollars for Tony. “Damn,” Sam says. “She’s good.” He gets a speculative look in his eyes. “You think she’ll agree to do next year’s auction as well?”</p><p>“Only one way to find out,” Steve says, fully aware Sam’s trying to distract him from his upcoming ordeal.</p><p>“Alright, ladies and gentlemen,” Nat says, drawing out her words to build suspense. She looks stunning in her red evening gown, sequins glimmering in the spotlight that follows her as she works the stage. “I know some of you haven’t made any bids all evening. I’ve been keeping track,” she says, with a hint of menace. “Old habits die hard.” She waits for the slightly nervous laughter to die down. “You’ve probably been keeping your checkbooks in reserve for the hottest ticket of the night.”</p><p>“Hey!” Tony yells from somewhere in the crowd. “I’m <em>Iron Man!</em><em>”</em></p><p>Over the cheers and friendly catcalls, Nat says, “How about a little competition, then? I’m sure some of you here are Team Cap. Can we top that ten grand bid or are we going to let Team Iron Man have bragging rights?” Cheers and whoops fill the ballroom. “Don’t let Cap down,” Nat says, wagging her finger at the crowd. “Are we ready?”</p><p>“Christ.” Steve resists the urge to drag his fingers through his hair when the noise level climbs another notch. Nat will kill him if he ruins his hair before he even gets up on stage. This is the part of his job he hates the most—the publicity and the attention. A good cause, he reminds himself.</p><p>“Come on up, Captain America!” Nat calls.</p><p>Sam gives him a little shove on the shoulder. “Give them a show and shake that ass a little! I hear it’s the finest one in the whole of America.”</p><p>Just then, a very familiar trumpet fanfare plays over the sound system. “No,” Steve says.</p><p>“Yes,” Sam replies.</p><p>
  <em>Who's strong and brave, here to save the American Way? Who vows to fight like a man for what's right night and day?</em>
</p><p>“I’m gonna get you for this.” Steve points at Sam before climbing the steps up to the stage, feet automatically moving in time to the beat. Sam’s laugh follows him all the way. At least the stage lights are blinding. The less he can see of the crowd the better.</p><p>The music fades away when Steve gets to the middle of the stage. He blinks as a spotlight is trained on him, leaving him feeling very exposed.</p><p>“Up for grabs,” Nat announces, “is an afternoon with Captain Rogers at the Museum of Modern Art, followed by an intimate dinner for two at One If By Land, Two If By Sea. Bidding will start at one thousand dollars.” There’s a dramatic pause followed by a drumroll. “Team Cap,” Nat intones, “make him proud.”</p><p>He doesn't succeed in mustering up more than a self-conscious smile at the loud whoops and raucous applause that follows, but it seems to go down well. When he did the reels and the stage shows in his ‘booty shorts days’ as Nat likes to call them, he knew what lines to say, what marks to hit. Standing on stage with absolutely nothing to do but look pretty while the bidding takes place is excruciating. He tries to keep the fidgeting to a minimum by standing at parade rest. He nods and smiles every time someone yells something particularly attention-grabbing, sometimes he raises a hand in acknowledgment. Change position every now and then, he reminds himself. Don’t want to look like a wax dummy.</p><p>A tiny, competitive part of him feels just a little bit better when his bids surpass Tony’s ten grand after a bidding war breaks out between “the gentleman at Table 12” and “the lady with the pearls”. In his head, he can already hear Bucky scoffing. <em>Tiny, my ass. You</em><em>’re the most goddamned competitive person I know.</em></p><p>It’s been five years since Bucky fell off that train. In that time, his grief has become woven into his very being, an ache he carries with him always. But it still sneaks up on him sometimes—fresh and raw as an open wound. Like now. He can't help wondering what Bucky would make of the whole auction. Before the war, he probably would’ve loved it, would be up on stage giving Tony a run for his money with the razzle dazzle routine. But the war, whatever happened at Kreichsberg… it changed him—Bucky didn't like attention anymore, not even from Steve.</p><p>“Do I hear thirteen thousand?” Nat says, pulling Steve out from his thoughts of a long-gone past. There’s a sense of anticipation in the room that’s almost palpable. “No?” She puts her hand up to shade her eyes and looks at someone in the crowd. The spotlight picks out a petite old lady with curly silver hair and a pearl necklace. “This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, ma’am. Don’t let it slip through your fingers.”</p><p>The lady laughs and waves Nat off with the kind of wicked twinkle in her eyes that says she knows how to have a good time. Steve’s a little sorry that she’s backing out because, good time aside, she might actually be old enough to have lived a life that shared some common ground with his.</p><p>“Going once,” Nat says, “going twice, <em>sold </em>to the gentleman at Table 12 for twelve thousand dollars!”</p><p>A loud fanfare starts up and the spotlight swings away from the old lady towards a table in the middle of the room. A man raises his arm to acknowledge the applause from the crowd, his face blocked by the brunette sitting next to him.</p><p>Jesus Christ, twelve grand. What kind of person would drop that kind of money just to spend half a day with him? Steve gets a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach just thinking about it. How the hell is he supposed to make that twelve grand worth it? Sometimes he really misses being a tiny nobody from Brooklyn. He slaps on his best propaganda smile and waves at the crowd as he walks off the stage.</p><p>Maude’s already waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs. “Thank you for your service, Captain,” she says, dryly. Her eyes crinkle with amusement at the rueful face he pulls. “They’ll be waiting for you back there.” She points at a table at the back of the ballroom where the organizers have set up a table equipped with portable credit card terminals. “Make sure your bidder hands over his credit card before you hand over your digits.”</p><p>“You get renegers often?”</p><p>“It’s happened once or twice. You know how it is, some people get all hyped up then their mouths write checks that their asses can’t cash.” She pats his hand. “Better safe than sorry.”</p><p>“Yes, ma’am.”</p><p>By the time he makes his way through the crowd, getting stopped by way too many people who want to shake his hand or congratulate him, his bidder is already seated at the table, with his back to the room. The guy signs some papers and hands over his credit card to the woman on the other side of the table. His dark brown hair is pulled back into a short ponytail at the nape of his neck.</p><p>Steve's heart gives an uncomfortable lurch at the sight of the sharp edge of a very familiar jawline. He can remember exactly what that sharp jut of bone feels like against his lips. He remembers nipping at the beautiful curve of it, the prickle of stubble against his lips. He remembers the taste of the skin behind that jaw.</p><p>
  <em>“John.” </em>
</p><p>Every line of that slim, lithe body goes taught under the perfect fit of his suit. Steve suddenly remembers the way John had walked away from him without a backward glance.</p><p>The guy shoots up from the chair and turns around.</p><p>The bottom drops out of Steve's stomach.</p><p>No. Not John. <em>James DeWitt</em>. Steve's mind goes blank. He feels an almost surreal sense of being tipped into one of his dreams where it shifts from shuddering moans echoing off tiled walls to screams of pain in a sandy tunnel, or sometimes, when life decides he needs a particularly big kick to the teeth, into the fading sound of Bucky’s scream as the train moves on inexorably, taking Steve further and further away.</p><p>“Hi?” James’ voice is tentative and he looks about two seconds from bolting. The longer Steve stares at that familiar, beloved face as he tries to think of something to say, the more James seems to fold up into himself. “This was a bad idea,” he mutters, turning away. Which is when Steve notices Jessica DeWitt standing next to her brother and glaring at Steve like she wants to take a two-by-four to his head.</p><p>Honestly, Steve would give her one if one came to hand. His silence has obviously hurt James, and he can't bear seeing hurt in those eyes that look too much like Bucky's. Steve is defenseless against them… he always has been.</p><p>All the things he's been trying to forget for two years come rushing back—James’ courage and heart, how much Steve wished he could've gotten to know him better. Yes, he’s still worried about James’ possible fixation on him, but right now all he cares about is easing that hurt.</p><p>“James,” he says. He feels about two inches tall when James’ shoulders curl up at the sound of his voice. “I'm sorry. You caught me by surprise.”</p><p>James is about to say something when Jessica moves to stand next to him, conveniently blocking the view of the woman behind the desk who’s staring at them with great interest. “We should move,” Jessica says. “There are people waiting.”</p><p>They shuffle off to the side of the ballroom, further away from curious eyes. Steve can’t help studying James as Jessica leans in to whisper something in his ear. He looks good—gorgeous, in fact—in the warm light from the chandeliers. Nothing at all like the thin, scruffy guy who’d risked himself to protect Steve. Sick with guilt, his gaze drops to James’ left arm even though the sleeve of his jacket conceals the scars Steve knows are there. Thank god James doesn’t notice his momentary lapse since his attention is on his sister who’s saying something to him in low tones. She squeezes his hand and gives Steve a very pointed look. <em>Watch yourself,</em> it says. Steve nods. Then, she turns on her heel and walks off.</p><p>“Right,” James says. “We should… Um.” He pauses, looking adorably flustered as he tucks a lock of hair that’s come free from his ponytail behind his ear. Steve’s eyes are drawn once again to the clean line of his jaw… so much like Bucky’s. So much like—No. He’s imagining things. What the fuck is he doing, letting his dreams get to him like that.</p><p>“Exchange numbers?” Steve offers.</p><p>“Right. That.”</p><p>Steve’s just finished keying in James’ number when Sam signals to him from a few feet away. “Fuck.” He slips his phone back into his pocket and pretends not to see the <em>look</em> Sam is giving James and him.</p><p>“What?” James says, confused.</p><p>“I have to—” Steve points at the crowd and Sam’s receding back. “I promised a friend that I’d help with getting more donations for the VA.”</p><p>Sam’s exact words were <em>Hit up fat pockets</em>, which isn’t all that different from how Steve would’ve described it. “I don’t need much sleep, so you can call me any time and I’ll probably be awake,” he says, and promptly regrets drawing attention to the fact that he’s a freak of science. He doesn’t regret saying ‘call’ instead of ‘text’, though.</p><p>“Okay,” James says, sounding flustered. “I’ll call you tonight?”</p><p>“Tonight sounds good.”</p><p>Steve knows Sam’s waiting but he can’t seem to tear his gaze away from James’ eyes. They’re a clear, cool gray—just like Bucky’s. Warm and kind—just like Bucky’s. He’s missed that warmth and kindness so terribly.</p><p>“Okay,” James says. His cheeks have gone just the slightest bit pink under Steve’s prolonged scrutiny.</p><p>“I should… probably go,” Steve says. Before Sam beans him with something.</p><p>“Right.” James blinks. “Me too.”</p><p>“So… tonight?”</p><p>James nods.</p><p>Steve nods back, feeling suddenly tongue-tied. As he walks away, he takes one last look over his shoulder. James is watching him, looking lean and beautiful in his suit, and for a moment, Steve is reminded yet again of John. Fuck. It’s already messed up enough that he can’t help thinking of Bucky when he sees James. He doesn’t need one more complication.</p><p>“Isn’t that—” Sam says, when Steve joins him at the table near the stage.</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>Sam folds his arms and gives Steve a look. “He paid twelve grand to have dinner with you.”</p><p>“He did.”</p><p>“And you’re gonna go.”</p><p>“I am.”</p><p>“You don’t think that’s maybe a little weird?”</p><p>Steve sighs and meets Sam’s eyes. “Maybe.”</p><p>“Do you <em>want </em>to go?”</p><p>He doesn’t know how to explain the pull he feels towards James since he doesn’t understand it himself. It isn’t just because of the physical resemblance to Bucky. There’s just something about James that tugs at him. Steve felt it from that first moment in the cave, and he’s never really stopped feeling it. Some nights—nights when he felt particularly alone—he gave in to temptation and googled James just to reassure himself that James was fine.</p><p>And maybe the auction date is an excuse for him to finally get to spend time with James even though all his reasons for staying away are all still there, but he’s selfish enough to grab at the chance. Maybe James is a little weird about him. But after two years, he can admit that he’s a little weird about James, too.</p><p>Sam’s eyes narrow. “You <em>do.</em><em>”</em></p><p>Steve shrugs. “I do.”</p><p>“Be careful,” Sam says, finally. “For both your sakes.”</p><p>*</p><p>James climbs into bed and snuggles under the covers. The soft golden glow of lamp on the nightstand illuminates every corner of the room. He automatically scans the room anyway even though there are no large pieces of furniture left for anyone to hide behind and no nooks that he can’t see into.</p><p>It’s one in the morning, but Steve had said to call any time. His fingernail makes a clicking sound as he taps the back of the phone. Would he seem too eager if he called the same night? Ah, fuck it. Life is short and its trajectory can get knocked off course at any moment, a fact driven home one night in a hotel room in Dubai. He hits dial and feels his heart immediately start to race.</p><p>After two rings, Steve picks up. “Hello?”</p><p>God. A shiver runs down James’ spine at that deep voice. He can remember what it sounds like whispering low and dirty in his ear. He swallows to wet his suddenly dry throat. “Hi. It’s me. James.”</p><p>“You called,” Steve says, sounding pleased. “I was starting to think you wouldn’t.”</p><p>“Oh. Well.” A nervous laugh escapes him. “Takes guts to call a national hero.” <em>That you blew once. </em>The words hover at the tip of his tongue. He’s terrified one moment of distraction will have them slipping out.</p><p>“That didn’t seem to stop you from bidding on me,” Steve says, with just a hint of a teasing tone.</p><p>“Jess—that’s my sister—she’s very good at keeping my courage up.” Sure, it was done through a lot of whispered threats, but he couldn’t deny she was effective.</p><p>“I’ll bet.”</p><p>James bites back a smile. “You met her, didn’t you.”</p><p>“At the hospital, yes,” Steve says. James can hear an answering smile in his voice. “She clearly loves you very much.”</p><p>“That’s an incredibly diplomatic statement. She told me she took some pot shots at you.”</p><p>Steve laughs, sharp and surprised. “Like I said, she clearly loves you very much.”</p><p>“The feeling is entirely mutual, fortunately.” James picks at his quilt and tries to gather up the courage to ask the question that’s been hovering at the back of his mind since he won the bid.</p><p>He takes a deep breath. Opens his mouth—</p><p>“Actually,” Steve says, almost hesitantly, and then stops. James’ heart pounds loudly in his ears. “I’m glad to have a chance to speak to you again. I’ve wondered how you’ve been after…”</p><p>There’s an uncomfortable pause that James recognizes from other conversations where someone doesn’t know how to bring up either his kidnapping or his arm, or both. James’ hand starts to sweat as he grips his phone tighter. “The kidnapping?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Steve says, softly. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. I’ve just… worried, is all.”</p><p>The shock of hearing those words is enough to distract him from the urge to get out of bed and check every lock in the apartment. Steve’s wondered how he’s been? Worried about him?</p><p>There’s a strange easing sensation in his chest, like a wound that’s been left to fester since he woke up in a hospital bed in New York has suddenly been lanced and cleansed. He knows it’s stupid to feel hurt—of course Captain America can’t stay at the bedside of every person he saved—and yet, no matter what his head understood, his heart still felt the pain of abandonment.</p><p>But... Steve‘s thought about him in the years since the rescue.</p><p>He claps a hand over his mouth. Words, emotions—they tangle up at the back of his throat, press at the back of his teeth. He absolutely cannot give them voice. He closes his eyes and tries to calm his pounding heart.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Steve says, words coming out in a rush. “I shouldn’t have—“</p><p>“No,” James blurts out. “No, it’s okay. I just—needed a moment.” He gathers his scattered thoughts, relaxes his white-knuckled grip on his phone. “I’m alright,” he says. “Some days are harder than others, some days it takes me longer to open that front door, but… well. I have my freedom, I have my family, I have a really great therapist. I’m alright.”</p><p>He survived. He refuses to do anything other than thrive.</p><p>“And,” Steve says, “your arm?”</p><p>James’ gaze goes automatically to his left arm. “My arm’s good. The doctors did a great job. I’ve got pretty much full mobility.” As long as he makes sure to moisturize, moisturize, moisturize.</p><p>In fact, if people don’t already know about the burn scars that wrap all around his arm they probably won’t even notice them. All they’ll see is the full-sleeve tattoo that incorporates the scars so organically that they look like part of the design. As long as they don’t touch, he thinks, with a twist to his lips. There’s no hiding the scars then.</p><p>“That’s—good to hear. I didn’t get to thank you properly—”</p><p>“Steve.”</p><p>Steve goes quiet at the sound of his voice.</p><p>“I owe you my life,” James says. “I think we can call it more than even.” Before Steve can do more than draw a breath to argue—and he <em>will </em>argue, James knows it with a certainty that’s bone-deep even though he doesn’t know where that certainty comes from—James says, “Actually, there’s something I should’ve asked earlier.”</p><p>“Okay,” Steve says. He draws out the syllables, a hint of tension in his voice.</p><p>James takes a quiet breath. At least he doesn’t have to do this face to face. It’s easier talking like this—safe and secure in his bedroom with Steve just a disembodied voice on the line. “Will this be hard for you?”</p><p>There’s a long pause. “Why would it be hard for me?”</p><p>“I know I look like him. Like—your friend.”</p><p>“And if I said it would?”</p><p>James takes every ounce of disappointment and stuffs it deep deep down so not a trace of it leaks through. “Then I will consider this phone call as having fulfilled the terms of the auction and walk away. No harm, no foul.”</p><p>“I’m not gonna lie here, James. It’s… definitely more than a little strange,” Steve says. “But hard? I won’t know unless I give this a shot. What I <em>do </em>know is that I actually am looking forward to seeing you.” James is still reeling from this statement when Steve continues. “How’d you find out that you look like Bucky?” A tiny trace of bitterness runs like acid through his voice when he adds: “He barely rates a line or two in a schoolbook.”</p><p>“Um.” </p><p>Fuck. He should’ve thought this through better, come up with a story to explain it. He says the first thing that pops into his head. “Someone mentioned it, I think.” Hopefully Steve doesn’t hear the edge of panic in his voice. “And then I Googled it.”</p><p>Lies, all lies. Lies cut from whole cloth. But then, how does he tell <em>Steve Rogers </em>that he’s been fascinated by Steve Rogers since he was a kid? That he has nearly every major book written about him? Because that’s how he knows—he saw Bucky’s photo in one of his ‘Cap books’, as his family calls them. So hadn’t it been a trip when the face in the mirror began to look more and more like those rare photos of Bucky in his books.</p><p>“I’m glad,” Steve says. “Sometimes I see all this stuff written about me and wonder why they don’t—” The sound of an exhale shushes across the line. “I’m glad there are people who still remember Bucky.”</p><p>Steve’s words hold an old sorrow that ignites a terrible sadness inside him, like an echo of a greater loss. Steve’s still grieving after all this time. The ache in his chest swells until it threatens to swallow him whole. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.</p><p>A quiet sigh. “It’s fine.”</p><p>It clearly isn’t. And James realizes something else—there is no way he can ever tell Steve he’s John. He will have to take that secret to his grave.</p><p>“So,” Steve says, with forced cheer. “I guess we should fix up when we’re gonna meet.”</p><p>“I’ve got next Friday off.” Did he sound a little too eager? Did he take a day off just to be ready for that date? Yes and yes. But he doesn’t care. He’s happy to help Steve change the subject and it’ll be stupid to pretend he’s not damned fucking keen to see Steve. He did pay twelve grand for the privilege, after all.</p><p>Steve chuckles, the low and graveled sound sinking right into James’ core. “Friday it is.”</p><p>They agree on a time and place to meet and then there’s a brief awkward silence before James ends the call. He spread-eagles on the bed and stares up at the ceiling.</p><p>In one week’s time, he’ll be spending half a day with Steve.</p><p>
  <em>In one week</em>
  <em>’s time, he’ll be spending half a day with Steve. </em>
</p><p>He still can’t wrap his head around the enormity of it. After so many years of feeling almost haunted by the guy, he’ll finally get to meet him. A weird soup of emotions churn in his gut at the thought. Excitement, elation, hope—they’re all there, but tempered, muted by the quiet grief in Steve’s voice when he spoke of Bucky.</p><p>He takes a deep breath, counts slowly to ten, and lets it out again. <em>I did it,</em> he texts to Jess. <em>I called him. </em></p><p><em>How’d it go,</em> Jess replies, almost instantly. <em>Did you tell him?</em></p><p>
  <em>No.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Why not?</em>
</p><p><em>I can’t, </em>James sends. <em>He</em><em>’s still isn’t over Bucky’s death. </em>Fingers fly faster over the screen as the act of typing out his thoughts helps crystallize them. <em>I think knowing would only hurt him. And maybe even</em><em>… defile Bucky’s memory somehow. </em></p><p><em>Defile, </em>Jess sends. <em>That’s a little dramatic surely?</em></p><p>
  <em>Think about it. Imagine Steve finding out he had sex with a guy who looks just like his dead best friend. It</em>
  <em>’d be pretty fucking weird. Gross even. I don’t want to taint his memories like that. </em>
</p><p>There’s a long pause. Then, <em>It</em><em>’s been years for him, though. Shouldn’t he be better by now?</em></p><p><em>No. </em>James can’t explain why he’s so sure of the depth of Steve’s grief.</p><p>
  <em>So you’re never going to tell him.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I’m never going to tell him. </em>
</p><p>It’s ridiculous that a regular guy like him should feel protective of Captain America, but he’s long accepted that his reaction to Steve Rogers defies all logic. Underneath that impulse is also the tiny, niggling fear that Steve might come to hate him if he ever found out what happened between them. And that thought, he absolutely cannot bear.</p><p><em>I’m sorry,</em> Jess sends. <em>I wish things weren’t like this. </em></p><p><em>Me too. </em>Thank god they’re having this conversation by text. Seeing Jess’ sad eyes would probably break something inside him.<em> Anyway. I’m gonna sleep now.</em></p><p>
  <em>Okay, bb. Goodnight.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Night. </em>
</p><p>He puts away the phone and scrubs a hand over his face. He’s got to calm the fuck down and remain focused on the goal. <em>It</em><em>’s not a date, </em>he thinks, over and over again. <em>Not a date. Calm the fuck down. Remain focused on the goal. </em></p><p>He’s got only one shot at it so he really needs the plan to work. When his therapist first suggested bidding on Steve, he thought she was joking. When he realized she was serious, he thought she was mad. After she laid it out for him, he thought <em>Why the fuck not</em>. After years of being haunted by a figment of his own imagination, he’s desperate enough to give it a shot even if it means nearly emptying out his bank account. He can’t keep going on like this—stuck in a purgatory where he remains forever half in love with his <em>idea</em> of Steve—because sooner or later, it drives a slow, relentless wedge into every relationship he’s ever been in.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The cavernous interior of the MOMA echoes with the sound of shuffling feet and murmured conversation as James climbs the steps leading to the third floor with Steve by his side. His knees feel like jello and his hands sweat as he keeps his gaze fixed firmly forward.</p><p>From the corner of his eye, he can see the curious look Steve is giving him from under the brim of his cap. James would return it but that will mean looking past the fucking glass balustrades right out into the emptiness of the central atrium. Not even Steve—looking absolutely drool-worthy in a sleek, surprisingly modern-looking black jacket over a white shirt tucked into dark blue jeans—is enough to tempt him. Every time he catches a glimpse of edge, he remembers the sensation of falling and falling and falling…</p><p>Steve angles his body forward, cutting off the view. It’s clear he can tell how freaked James is because he’s managed to shift so he’s always between James and the balustrades. James is not too proud to let him do it either since Steve empirically has no fear of heights. James even left his hair loose so he can use it to block his peripheral vision, but there’s only so much hair can obscure. No way it can rival a huge, solid slab of man.</p><p>“Why the MOMA?” James asks, to distract himself from three floors’ worth of empty air just a few feet away. “I mean, why modern art,” he clarifies. “You studied art before the war, right?”</p><p>“I did.” Steve gives him an odd look as they reach the top of the stairs.</p><p>Shit. He was so busy trying to act normal that he didn’t think through his question at all. Is the art school thing common knowledge, or something only someone unhealthily obsessed would know? There’s so much information in his head about Steve that he’s not even sure where some of it came from—books, documentaries, wild guesses that sometimes bubble up from within like fragments of a half-remembered dream. To his relief, Steve answers like the question isn’t too stalker-y.</p><p>“If you’re asking why modern art when a lot of it was created while I was in the ice, well…” Steve’s eyes go distant. A small, almost sad, smile curves up one corner of his mouth. “A very smart person told me there’s no going back to the past. So…” Steve shrugs, massive shoulders shifting under the black leather of his jacket. “Modern art is me starting over. One Campbell’s soup can at a time.”</p><p>When they get to the glass doors of the exhibit, Steve hesitates as they look into the narrow opening leading into the warren of walls hung with photographs. The maze-like setup maximizes wall space, but it means they can’t see more than thirty to forty feet in any given direction. The exhibit isn’t packed, but there’s still a decent crowd of people walking around. A low hum of conversation echoes through the space.</p><p>Cramped quarters, lots of people. Steve’ll probably feel trapped in there. Before James can say something, suggest a different venue, Steve’s jaw sets and he walks resolutely forward.</p><p><em>Wither he goes, so I follow. </em>The thought flits through James’ head as he hurries to catch up.</p><p>“Whoa.” James stops in front of a wall completely covered in photos of women giving birth. Some of the images are very graphic, but not in a titillating way. He glances sideways at Steve to see what he makes of it.</p><p>As if sensing his gaze, Steve turns to him. “My mother was a nurse,” he says. “And most women gave birth at home when I was growing up. Sometimes I’d go with her if there was no one around to help them.”</p><p>“You helped deliver <em>babies?</em><em>”</em></p><p>“I helped boil water,” Steve says, lips quirking. “Mostly. But I did have to go into the bedroom to help out a few times. My eyesight may not have been perfect, but I wasn’t blind.”</p><p>Most women gave birth at home. James tries to process that statement. He must be making some kind of weird face, because Steve says, bone dry, “Yes, James, I was born a very long time ago.” The hint of devilry in his eyes make them look incredibly blue.</p><p>James closes his mouth with a snap. He doesn’t know why that bit of knowledge is what really drives home the fact that Steve began his life in a very different time, but well… brains are funny like that. “You know,” he says, a little dazed, “I knew that about you… but not like… <em>know</em> know, y’know?” He pulls a face as he registers the words that just came out of his mouth. “Wow,” he mutters, as heat crawls up his cheeks. “Could I have used one more ‘know’ in that sentence.”</p><p>Steve laughs—short and surprised and bright. His eyes glow and crinkle up at the corners and seem to invite James to laugh along with him.</p><p>An answering laugh bubbles up inside even as James wants to cover his burning face. Fucking hell. <em>Dimples</em>. Steve Rogers has dimples that should be registered as a lethal weapon. It’s just ridiculous on a man already so blessed in the looks department. “I’m normally a lot smoother than this, just for the record.”</p><p>Steve nudges him as he starts walking further into the exhibit. “Smooth is overrated.”</p><p>The laugh finally escapes as he nudges Steve back, heart feeling like it can’t quite fit inside his ribs as they amble along, shoulders nearly brushing. “That’s rich considering you just pulled out a pretty fucking smooth line.”</p><p>Steve looks surprised and pleased by the compliment, a warm curve to his lips that feels strangely familiar even though James has never seen it before. There are very few photos of Steve smiling that aren’t the plastic, toothy grin from his movies. The only time he seemed truly happy was in the brief, black-and-white footage of him smiling indulgently at Bucky. The first time James saw that clip at the Smithsonian exhibition, a surge of emotions nearly brought him to his knees. That was his face up there on the screen, his face that Steve was looking at while glowing like the sun.</p><p>“I was the furthest thing from smooth,” Steve says, wryly. He glances sideways at James. Then, jaw firming like he’s made some sort of decision, he says, “Bucky was the smooth one.”</p><p>An echo of that surge washes over James when he hears that name in Steve’s deep voice. He says it softly, wistfully. James’ heart turns over in his chest. “I’m sorry,” he manages. “About your friend.”</p><p>Steve slides his hands into his pockets and looks down as they continue walking, neither of them paying any attention to the photos that line the wall. “It was war,” he says, in a quiet voice that James has to strain to hear it.</p><p>Almost without realizing it, James drifts closer, pulled by a need to comfort Steve. He checks himself just before his shoulder presses against Steve. It’s not his place. They’re basically strangers, despite what a tiny corner of his soul screams.</p><p>“You still miss him.”</p><p>“Every single day,” Steve rasps. “It should have been me. If he hadn’t—” He cuts himself off and breathes out a long, quiet sigh.</p><p>“He’s glad you made it through the war.” The words come unbidden from a place deep inside. “He only ever wanted to protect you.”</p><p>Steve stops dead in his tracks, head snapping round. His eyes blaze with emotions James can’t define.</p><p>“I—I’m sorry,” James stammers. “That was out of line, I don’t know why—”</p><p>“No,” Steve says. His face goes blank. People continue to circulate around the room in contrast to the stillness that’s wrapped around them. “It’s okay.”</p><p>James desperately wishes he could unsay the words that put that haunted look on Steve’s eyes. He knows he’s weirdly hung up on Steve, but he’s just plumbed new depths of weirdness that are surprising even to him<em>.</em></p><p>“You’re right, though, about him wanting to protect me.” Steve’s voice carries an old sorrow in it when he says, “He did. Even though I was the biggest pain in the ass about it.” His gaze turns inward as people edge around them to study the photos on the walls. Then, he gives a quiet sigh. “Jesus. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.”</p><p>“Is it because—?” James waves at his face, feeling like an impostor. It’s another reason why he left his hair down.</p><p>“Maybe.” Steve studies him for a long moment, but there's a hint of doubt in the crease of his brow. “I mean, sure, you look like him. But the moment you speak, there's no mistaking you for him.”</p><p>“Why is that?”</p><p>Steve's smile is soft and sad as he touches James’ elbow and starts walking. “We were a couple of Brooklyn boys with barely two coins to rub together, and that's exactly what we sounded like.”</p><p>“You don't really sound like that anymore.”</p><p>“Elocution lessons.” Steve shrugs. “Needed them for the tours and the films. Can't have Captain America sounding like no Brooklyn rat.”</p><p>Steve says that last sentence with an echo of what must be his original accent. The words drop like stones into James’ mind, sending out ripples in all directions. A wisp of sound tugs at the edges of his perception. He cocks his head. He can almost make out—  </p><p>“James,” Steve says. “You okay?”</p><p>He blinks at Steve, distracted by a sensation almost like vertigo. “I—” When did they stop walking? “Yeah, I'm fine.”</p><p>Steve seems like he’s about to say something, but then he starts walking instead. “So,” he says, “what do you do?”</p><p>“Getting to Know You 101, huh?” James gives an amused huff when Steve nudges him in the side.</p><p>“I’m curious, alright?”</p><p>“I work as a volunteer engineer for Engineers Without Borders.”</p><p>Steve gives him an impressed look. “Sounds like you’re doing good work.”</p><p>“Ah, well.” James ducks his head. No way his own paltry efforts can compare with Steve’s. “It’s a recent thing. After I graduated, I never did much with my degree. Too busy having a good time.” He pretends an interest in the photos on the walls as they walk slowly past so he doesn’t have to see what Steve must think of his choices.</p><p>“What changed?”</p><p>“Being in that cave. A lot of time for self-reflection, I guess.” He makes himself meet Steve’s steady gaze. “Didn’t much like what I found. And after—I felt like I should do something better with my life, not waste the chance I’d been given. I mean, you guys risked your lives to pull me out. So…” He trails off. “I don’t travel though, so I don’t really qualify for that ‘without borders’ part.” He musters up a smile. “Travel has kinda lost its appeal.” Steve’s gaze is heavy on him as they walk. “So,” he says brightly, “that’s me.”</p><p>“Volunteer engineer,” Steve says.</p><p>“Yup.”</p><p>Their meandering steps take them into another room filled with photographs.</p><p>“Why engineering?” Steve asks.</p><p>“I like math,” James says. “Was always pretty good at it so—” He breaks off when an odd look crosses Steve’s face. “What?”</p><p>“Nothing,” Steve says, studiedly casual.</p><p>Before James can dig further, Steve’s phone makes a discreet and courteous beeping sound. “Dammit.” He frowns. “Sorry, I need to take this. Only a few people can override the silent mode on my phone.”</p><p>“Yeah. Sure. It's fine.”</p><p>Steve pulls out a sleek-looking phone with a huge Avengers logo emblazoned on the back, courtesy of Stark most likely. With a last apologetic look at James, Steve walks back the way they came with the phone pressed to his ear.</p><p>James watches him go and tries not to freak out over the fact that their date which isn’t really a date seems to be going well. He expected to be tongue-tied and awkward—he’s been practically obsessed with Steve since he was a kid, after all. And yet… the conversation came easily as they walked. It was almost comfortable. Or as comfortable as possible when he’s screamingly aware of everything about Steve’s whole person.</p><p>He’s so caught up in thinking about Steve that it comes as a nauseating shock when, from right next to him, a horribly familiar voice says, “James?”</p><p>*</p><p>Fuck fuck <em>fuck. </em></p><p>He spins around to find Daniel standing in front of him, looking every inch the successful investment banker in a suit that shows off his tall, trim, broad-shouldered frame. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at work?” It’s a Friday afternoon, for fuck’s sake. He scans the crowd but doesn’t see Sandra anywhere. Which… of course he won’t. Daniel never approaches James where his wife can see.</p><p>Daniel points at a similarly-attired group of people. They stick out like store thumbs among the casually-dressed crowd wandering about. “Clients wanted to see the famous MOMA. What could I do?”</p><p>Eye on the prize. That was Daniel. James had been that prize for a while, only he was too infatuated to see it until too late.</p><p>“What about you?” Daniel steps closer—too close for casual acquaintances. His bright blue eyes gleam under the overhead lights, his blond hair haloed and golden. The scent of his cologne calls up memories of warm skin and hungry kisses. “I didn’t peg you for a museum-goer.”</p><p>“How would you have known?” James finds himself leaning away from Daniel where before he would’ve been tempted to lean in. “We never went anywhere. You only came over to my place for sex.”</p><p>Daniel at least has the decency to flush and look away. “You know my career—”</p><p>“I honestly don’t give a fuck anymore,” James says, suddenly so tired of the same old bullshit.</p><p>“I’ve been thinking of you a lot.” Daniel’s voice is low and intimate as he angles himself to cut off James’ view of the room.</p><p>“Are you fucking kidding me,” James snaps. He steps back, feeling cornered and not liking it one bit. Daniel’s assertiveness used to excite him. But then, blond, commanding men have always been his weakness. Every time, he hopes that the take-charge attitude comes from a place of caring and not selfishness, but he’s almost always disappointed. And that’s also partly his fault, because he knows exactly why he has a type. Too bad for him that no one can ever live up to the ideal of Steve Rogers he holds in his heart.</p><p>“What we had was good, James.”</p><p>“You decided what you have with Sandra is better. Remember?”</p><p>Daniel looks over his shoulder—checking on his clients, checking that no one is close enough to hear him propositioning a man—before turning back to James. “She doesn’t have to know.”</p><p>Daniel was in the middle of divorcing Sandra when James first met him. He was enjoying being single again and thinking of coming out of the closet. Or at least that’s what he told James. But then, one day, nearly four months into their relationship, Daniel told him that it wasn’t James, it was him, he wasn’t cut out for the queer life, some bullshit about his career, his ambitions. James tuned out at that point. And then Daniel went back to his wife, and the security of a marriage to a member of one of New York’s most respected families.</p><p>And now he has the nerve—he actually has the fucking nerve—to slide up to James in a public place and offer him an affair when he began their relationship with promises of something real, out and proud. His lip curls at the memory. “But I will.”</p><p>A large and very warm hand lands at the small of his back, nearly making him startle. “Everything okay here, James?”</p><p>Jesus Christ but Steve is silent on his feet for such a massive guy. He looks between Daniel and James, face calm but not particularly friendly. Whatever Daniel sees in Steve’s eyes has him stepping back hurriedly.</p><p>Looking between them, James can see their more-than-passing resemblance. But with Steve standing so close, his quiet strength like warmth against James’ skin, it makes Daniel’s arrogance and huge fucking sense of entitlement all the more obvious.</p><p>“Yeah,” James says. “We’re done.” He doesn’t bother hiding the disgust in his voice. It makes about as much an impression on Daniel as a mote of dust. Daniel’s eyes are firmly fixed on Steve, a speculative gleam in them. </p><p>“You’re Captain America,” Daniel says. He looks over to where his clients are clustered around a photo on a wall.</p><p>Christ. Seeing Daniel already figuring out how to turn this to his advantage leaves a sour taste in James’ mouth. He’s about to suggest they leave, but Steve turns towards him, presenting Daniel with the mile-wide expanse of his back.</p><p>“We have to go,” Steve says. “I’m sorry.”</p><p>“Sure.” James doesn’t try to hide the eagerness in his voice. Steve cups his elbow and waves him forward as if to say, <em>You first</em>, like the courtliest of gentlemen.</p><p>Behind Steve, Daniel’s mouth his hanging open ever so slightly. He’s a very good-looking man who’s used to getting attention, so it must be a novel experience for him to be treated as though he doesn’t exist. It’s fucking <em>hilarious</em> and goes a long way towards making James feel better about the whole stupid meeting.</p><p>They walk away without a backward glance. Once they’re out on the landing and heading towards the fucking steps, James says, “If you’re in a hurry, you don’t have to wait for me.” He’s trying not to think of Steve in another fight, getting bloodied and injured, risking himself for everyone else. Why else would he be getting a call that overrode his phone settings.</p><p>Steve clears his throat and mumbles something.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“I lied,” Steve repeats, sounding very sheepish. “We don’t have to go. It was just Tony being Tony.”</p><p>James jerks to a halt and stares at Steve, something sour twisting in his stomach. “Then why—?” Was it something he did? Said? He thought everything was going well. Did Steve actually set up an emergency call to get him out of their outing?</p><p>Steve rubs the back of his neck and ducks his head. It shouldn’t be possible for a six-foot-two solid slab of muscle to look so adorable, but Steve Rogers has broken so many rules in his goddamned life, what’s one more.</p><p>He looks at James from under lashes that are just excessive. “You looked like you wanted to get away.”</p><p>James laughs, a sharp thing laced with razors.</p><p>“I take it I didn’t guess wrong.”</p><p>“You didn’t guess wrong,” James says, with feeling. “Thank you.” Steve watches him with eyes that are as blue and warm as the summer sky. He feels safe in that gaze, comforted. It’s a soothing balm on the raw edges of emotions churned up by seeing Daniel again.</p><p>This outing was supposed to help him see that Steve’s not this incredible fantasy guy. How does he tell his therapist that the plan has been an absolute failure? Because so far, all he’s getting is that his fantasy is pretty fucking close to reality.</p><p>He’s so fucked. </p><p>“Come on.” Steve nudges him and starts walking. “We still have that dinner to go to.”</p><p>*</p><p>Steve can’t take his eyes off James as he looks around the old-world interior of the restaurant from their secluded corner table by the window. The warm lighting burnishes his skin to a golden color and halos his dark brown hair.</p><p>“You know I didn’t think you were the sort of guy who’d eat at a place like this,” James says.</p><p>“Why not?” Steve asks.</p><p>“The candles, the chandeliers, the flowers…” James tilts is head. “Seems a little overwrought, I guess?”</p><p>Bucky would’ve shared that sentiment and would probably have ragged him for days on end about the pricey menu and the fussy, romantic decor. Steve shrugs. “Sometimes I just want to eat in a place that looks like it might’ve been around when I was growing up. And,” he adds, “serves food I recognize.” The warm colors, the red brick walls, the dark wood paneling—all of it is a relief from cold, brushed steel and bare concrete minimalist interiors. Probably why Nat recommended it to him in the first place.</p><p>“Besides,” Steve says, as a server sets down their orders, “they’ll make me an extra large Beef Wellington if I ask them nicely.”</p><p>James whistles at the tiny mountain of pastry-wrapped beef. "That's at least a quarter of a cow. I didn’t even know they came in that size."</p><p>"That’s a bit of an exaggeration, don’t you think?” Steve cuts into the crisp pastry shell with relish. “It's no more than an eighth." He quirks a brow and pops the slice of prime beef into his mouth.</p><p>At James’ laugh, a warm glow lights up Steve's chest. He doesn't order the extra large unless he’s with the other Avengers because his turbo-charged metabolism makes him feel like a freak around regular people. But somehow, James has already wormed his way through the shields that Steve’s been slowly building around himself since he became subsumed by the role of Captain America.</p><p>For the first time in a long while, he doesn't feel his defenses slamming into place when the conversation shifts to his past or how the serum changed him. James just seems genuinely interested in getting to know <em>him, </em>just Steve.</p><p>"You're still gonna have space for dessert?" James asks.</p><p>"Desserts." Steve says. “Plural.”</p><p>"Damn." James waves at Steve's torso with the fork in his hand. "How does it all <em>fit?"</em></p><p>“I have no idea. It just does.”</p><p>James makes a soft whining sound that has Steve thinking of masks and tuxedos. Heat crawls across his skin as his food turns to sawdust in his mouth.</p><p><em>“Damn.” </em>James raises his wineglass in a toast, oblivious of his effect on Steve. “To science.”</p><p>“To science,” Steve manages.</p><p>The conversation between them remains easy as the eat. By the time dessert arrives, Steve finally starts believing that the inevitable awkwardness won’t creep in. He’s a pretty boring guy compared to what people seem to think Captain America should be—a little too serious and reserved for the generations that grew up while he was frozen in the ice—but James seems genuinely more interested in Steve Rogers than in Captain America.</p><p>That makes it all the more difficult to avoid thinking about the tall, blond man who was talking to James at the MOMA. It’s none of his business and yet… and yet he can’t seem to help himself.</p><p>“That man you were talking to…”</p><p>James sighs and puts down his fork. He dabs at his mouth with the napkin on his lap, proper and cultured in a way Bucky and him had never been. When James licks the last trace of chocolate from his lips, an image of John on his knees pops into Steve’s mind.</p><p>Jesus fucking Christ.</p><p>“Daniel Whitaker,” James says. The quiet hum of conversation and the clink of silverware almost drown out his next words. "My ex."</p><p>Steve has an immediate and intensely visceral feeling of wrongness at the thought of James with a man who looks so much like himself, a man who still leans into James’ space with a proprietary air about him. Then he remembers the way James leaned away from Whitaker, fists balled up and body tense.</p><p>"Was he bothering you?" He’s still not sure why he gave in to the impulse to put his hand on James’ back in a show of… he’s not even sure what it was—protectiveness? Possessiveness? Both? But when James relaxed into his touch, he knew he did the right thing.</p><p>"No. I had it under control. He was just..." James looks away, mouth twisting into an unhappy line.</p><p>“You don’t have to tell me, but if you want to, I’ll listen.”</p><p>James nibbles at the corner of his mouth as he stares down at his plate. “It’s just stupid. I was so stupid.”</p><p>“Hey.” Steve leans forward in his seat and waits till James looks up at him. “I’m sure that’s not true.” James doesn’t look fully convinced, but at least the defeated droop to his shoulders is gone. “What happened?”</p><p>"Would you believe he wanted to pick up where we left off, except now he's back together with his wife.” James rolls his eyes. “I’d have the honor of being his piece on the side.” Sarcasm drips off every word. “Just… <em>wow.</em>”</p><p>Steve’s not familiar with the term, but he’s pretty sure he can guess the meaning from James’ reaction. Something dark and dangerous awakens inside him. “Are you okay?”</p><p>James’ eyes widen with surprise. "Why do you have that look on your face?"</p><p>"What look."</p><p>"Uh.” James swallows. “Like you want to hurt someone."</p><p>He’s right, Steve realizes. Every muscle in his body is battle-ready. He very much wants to take Whitaker apart for treating James like shit.</p><p><em>You barely know the guy</em>, he reminds himself, even though it feels like he does. Being with James feels easy and comfortable in a way he hasn't felt since... since a very long time ago. But James isn’t Bucky and he really doesn’t need to get his feelings for Bucky mixed up in James.</p><p>"Sorry." Steve leans back in his seat. “I don’t like the idea of you getting hurt.” He relaxes the muscles in his body and tries to beat his caveman instincts back into submission. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”</p><p>“Oh. Umm.” James’ eyes are still very wide as he stares at Steve, his lips slightly parted. “I’m not scared.”</p><p>James’ voice is soft and almost breathy. It makes Steve think of things he shouldn’t. He ducks his head and takes a sip of wine while he shoves those thoughts back into the dark, secret places in his soul. “That’s good,” he mutters. “So you’re okay?”</p><p>“Yeah,” James says, a wry twist to his mouth. “It’s been years. Seeing him just sucks because it reminds me how badly I misjudged him.” There’s a weight to the words that catches Steve’s attention but James looks down at his plate and fidgets with his napkin like he’s ready to drop the subject.</p><p>“You know,” Steve says, even as a part of him is screaming at him to shut up. "I can't help noticing I look a lot like Daniel."</p><p>James’ head snaps up. "No—"</p><p>"James, I'm not blind—”</p><p>"Let me finish."</p><p>Steve subsides at the bite in James' voice.</p><p><em>"No," </em>James repeats. "You don't look like Daniel. Daniel looks like <em>you."</em></p><p>"I don't—"</p><p>James looks like he wants to be anywhere but at the table having this conversation with Steve, but he still looks Steve square in the eye when he says: "You came first."</p><p>Something shifts inside Steve, cataclysmic and sudden, like a silent detonation at his core. </p><p>"Fuck," James mutters, when Steve can only stare at him, mind completely blank. "I'm sorry. I made things weird. Lemme just get the—”</p><p>"James."</p><p>“—check and we can—”</p><p>Steve covers James' hand with his own. "James," he says again. The touch seems to finally get through as James stammers to a halt and his gaze locks onto their hands. Maybe he feels it too, the strange current that seems to flow between them at the touch. “We’re fine. Now why don't you tell me exactly what you mean by that."</p><p>"It's gonna be weird," James says, softly.</p><p>"Trust me. I can handle weird."</p><p>"Don't say I didn't warn you.” James sighs and downs the last of his wine with a huge gulp. When he sets the wineglass down on the table, his hand is not quite steady. “When I was six someone gave me a book about Captain America,” he says. “Something appropriate for a kid—facts, photos, heroic stories.”</p><p>“Propaganda,” Steve says, grateful in a way he can’t express that James hadn’t said ‘a book about you’.</p><p>James huffs a laugh. “Pretty much.” He drags a hand through his hair. “One of the photos was of you just before you got the serum. You were in some kind of uniform, with like”—James waves a hand at his head—“an army cap on.”</p><p>Steve nods, remembering the pop of the flash going off in his face before Peggy led him to the car that would take them to a nondescript antique shop on the back streets of Brooklyn. When he walked in the door, he was the useless shrimp, when he came out, he was the supersoldier. It took him awhile to realize that shrimp or supersoldier, he was still overlooked. Ironically, it was for much the same reason—his appearance. Only to Bucky and Peggy was he just Steve. And now in the bright, shiny, superspeed world he’s living in there’s only Peggy left, and that only on her good days.</p><p>“I guess it started there,” James says.</p><p>“What did?”</p><p>“My, uh…” James flicks him a look and then quickly glances away, cheeks pink. “My fascination with you.” He waves his hand as though trying to shoo away his embarrassment.</p><p>It’s such a familiar and endearing gesture. Steve is suddenly twelve and watching Bucky blush and pretend he didn’t have a crush on Susan Hammond, the prettiest girl in his class, all while Steve tried to pretend that the idea of Bucky having a crush on Susan didn’t make something sour twist inside him.</p><p>“So anyway,” James hurries on. “Daniel.” The name pulls Steve up short as that old, familiar sourness uncoils inside him. “I have a type,” James says. “And well, the type is… you.”</p><p>“I see.” Daniel is tall, built, blond. James wants the supersoldier.</p><p>“I don’t think you do.” A frown creases James’ brow as he studies Steve with uncomfortably perceptive eyes. “I've fallen for a lot of short, skinny, blond guys too. Sadly, none of them were you, either.” He shrugs, lips twisting into a smile tinged with self-mockery. “I told you it was weird.” He covers his face with his hands. “I can’t believe I told you all that. Why is it so easy talking to you,” he whispers, almost to himself.</p><p>“Hey.” Steve gently pulls James’ hands away from his face, the bones of his wrists feeling almost fragile in Steve’s hand. James looks almost shattered, open and vulnerable in a way Steve has forgotten how to be ever since Bucky’s fall. “For what it’s worth, I feel it too.”</p><p>And he doesn’t care at all that James is right—it <em>is</em> weird. But then, things between them have never been normal, not since the moment James opened his eyes in that dark, dusty cave, stared up at him with Bucky’s face and whispered Steve's name like a prayer answered.</p><p>Steve is still trying to figure out if that prayer was James' or his own, because saving James had felt like he was saving himself. Whatever it is between them, he can’t let it go. Not again. Leaving James in the hospital was one of the biggest regrets of his life, he’s not going to be stupid about this new chance he’s been given.</p><p>“Have dinner with me again,” Steve says.</p><p>The shy smile that spreads across James’ face is all the answer he needs.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Steve adjusts his hold on the pizza boxes and takes a moment to compose himself before pressing the doorbell. He bounces on his toes as he waits, butterflies in his stomach because this will be his first time seeing James in a private setting. And not just any private setting… his apartment, his home.</p><p>They were originally going to meet up for dinner at a restaurant, but since James got held up at work, Steve suggested picking up pizza and meeting at James’ apartment instead. He was worried he was being too forward, but James was so quick to accept that Steve spent the rest of the day in such a good mood that Tony complained it was creeping him out.</p><p>There’s the sound of locks being turned, then the door swings open to reveal James. He’s dressed in a graphic, long-sleeved t-shirt and slim-fitting, black sweatpants that showcase his long, lean legs. His hair is ruffled and still damp from his shower.</p><p>“Hey,” Steve says, nearly speechless from how absolutely, touchably gorgeous James looks. Steve wants to touch <em>so much </em>but he limits himself to pressing a soft kiss to James’ cheek. Stubble prickles against his lips, making them tingle.</p><p>“Hey.” James smiles up at him, warm and welcoming. “Come on in.”</p><p>Steve waits in the entryway while James locks up behind him. It’s a long and complicated process involving several locks and deadbolts. It makes Steve very glad that the threat to James was eliminated once his father’s legislation was successfully passed.</p><p>“We can eat at the dining table or in front of the TV,” James says, from next to him. “Your choice.”</p><p>“In front of the TV.” That way they can sit closer together.</p><p>A small, pleased smile teases at the corner of James’ mouth. “I’ll get the plates.” He waves at a wide leather couch in front of a huge, flatscreen TV hanging on the far wall. “Make yourself at home.”</p><p>Steve drags his gaze away from the way the soft fabric of James’ clothes show off the lean muscles of his body and heads to the couch. He looks around him as he sets the pizza boxes on the coffee table in front of the couch.</p><p>The place is spacious and brightly lit, done up in cool blues and greens. There are photographs of family and friends scattered all about as well as interesting bits of clutter. The place looks posh, but also warm and inviting. It’s not in the least bit ostentatious or flashy. James may come from a wealthy family, but he doesn’t flaunt it.</p><p>“Sorry about canceling,” James says, as he hands Steve a plate and a can of beer. He settles on the couch next to Steve.</p><p>“Don’t worry,” Steve says. “This is just as good.” Even better, if he’s honest. “Did you get everything sorted out?”</p><p>“Yeah.” James takes a drink from his can. “Got everything finished up in time. The team will fly out to Ghana tomorrow morning as scheduled.” He leans against Steve with a relieved sigh. Janine is giving all of us the morning off as a reward.”</p><p>“That’s good.” James deserves a rest after working very long hours to cover for a colleague who was out the whole week after breaking her leg while hiking. “What do you want to watch?” Steve asks, very aware of the warmth and weight of James against his side. They’d shared one heated kiss at the end of their second date. One kiss had left him craving for more, but he made himself step back when he felt James pulling away.</p><p>“Your choice,” James says, “You got the pizzas, after all.”</p><p>Steve pulls out his phone and scrolls through the list of movies on his notes app.</p><p>“That’s quite an eclectic list you’ve got there,” James says, hooking his chin over Steve’s shoulder.</p><p>Steve's heart stops. He closes his eyes and let's himself remember Bucky sitting next to him on their crappy old couch, chin hooked over Steve's shoulder as he sneaks a look at the sketchbook in Steve's hand.</p><p>He stares unseeing at his phone and tries to ground himself in the feeling of James, solid and real behind him, tries to ground himself back in the present.</p><p>“Hey,” James says, softly. “Are you okay?”</p><p>“Yeah.” He packs away the memory carefully, heart heavy with a sweet sadness that he’s finally ready to let Bucky go. “I’m okay.” He angles his head to smile at James. “So about this list,” he says. “People keep telling me I gotta watch this movie or that movie that came out while I was still in the ice. I write them all down in case I actually have the time to. I thought it’d be better than channel surfing.” He keeps scrolling through the list. “I used to write them down in a little notebook, but then I ran out of pages so I transferred it all here.” He snorts. “In the end, it’s still pretty much like channel surfing.”</p><p>“But what do <em>you </em>feel like watching?”</p><p>“You know…” Steve considers the constantly-growing list of movies. Then, he closes the app and puts his phone away. “Let’s just watch a documentary. Your choice.” He’d much rather focus on James. If they watch something from his list, he’ll feel guilty if he doesn’t at least try to pay attention after someone took the time to recommend it to him.</p><p>“Sure?” James asks, a quizzical look on his face.</p><p>“Yup.” He leans forward and grabs a slice of pizza. To his amusement, James settles on a documentary about the construction of megaprojects. He elbows James in the side. “Nerd.”</p><p>“Watch it, buster,” James says, through a mouth full of pizza.</p><p>It’s ridiculous how Steve can find that adorable, but he does. A silly grin creeps across his face at the sight of James’ chipmunk cheeks. This third date is turning out to be like the first two one—the two of them sliding into conversation without any of the awkwardness Steve always feels around people he’s just met. Even their silences aren’t awkward. It’s like they’ve known each other years instead of just a few weeks. He tries not to think about how that easy familiarity comes from how much James reminds him of Bucky—from his friendly charm to his sweet warmth to his sarcastic edge that cuts right through Steve’s bullshit.</p><p>But for all that, Steve can’t help feeling that something is holding James back. Sometimes, an odd look will flicker across his face when he thinks Steve isn’t watching. He was also the one who ended their first kiss by pulling away and ducking his head so Steve couldn’t catch his eye. After what James went through with his bastard ex, it’s no surprise that he wants to take things slow.</p><p>However much time James needs, Steve is willing to give to him. He wants to do right by James, he wants this thing they’ve started to work out. So, when James turns to him with a nervous look on his face after the pizza boxes have been cleared away, Steve’s stomach actually drops.</p><p><em>Oh god. </em>“Is something wrong?" he asks, mind already running scenarios of what could have put that look on James’ face.</p><p>“That night at the auction,” James says. "You called me John.”</p><p>Steve’s mind goes completely blank. Just like that, he knows what James is going to say before he says it.</p><p>“You weren’t wrong.”</p><p>Steve laughs—a strange, strangled-sounding thing. He drags a hand down his face.</p><p>“Are you mad?” James whispers.</p><p>Is he mad? He tries to pick apart the tangled mess of his emotions. “A little… yeah. Seems a little late to be telling me this.” He stares at James, takes in the droop to his shoulders and the arms wrapped tightly around himself. “But mostly,” he says, “I guess I’m glad I’m not going crazy.”</p><p>James blinks at him in surprise. In the background, the tv drones on, ignored. “Crazy?”</p><p>“I dream about that night quite a lot,” Steve says. He props his elbows on his knees and stares down at the carpet beneath his bare feet because it’s easier than looking into gray eyes that dredge up too many memories. “And sometimes, I take off the mask and it’s you. It got… confusing.”</p><p>Sometimes, he takes off the mask and sees Bucky, with that one crooked tooth that pushed out his lip a little. Sometimes, the dream ends with James in a narrow cot in a cave, sometimes it’s Bucky strapped to a surgical table. Whichever way it ends, James or Bucky, they both look up at him and say his name in exactly the same way.</p><p>He keeps that information to himself.</p><p>“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”</p><p>James hunches a little more at the question. “I was planning to tell you on the phone on the night of the auction. But… when you spoke about him, I could tell you still miss him so much. How could I… I mean… my face—a toilet stall…” He gives a defeated shrug. “It just seemed so seedy. I didn’t want that mixed up in your memories of your friend.”</p><p>Steve cups James’ face. “It wasn’t seedy,” he says. “ Not to me.” James was trying to protect him, protect Bucky’s memory. But Steve’s already imagined far more explicit acts with Bucky than a blowjob in a five-star toilet stall. If anyone’s guilty of defiling Bucky’s memories, it’s him. “Why tell me now?”</p><p>“Well, I mean…” James waves a hand between the two of them. “The way things are going, we’re… you know, gonna bang at some point. I didn’t want to keep that from you—it’d be a lie by omission.” He hesitates. “And also… I thought the two of you were best friends. <em>Platonic</em> best friends. But sometimes, with me looking like this…” James slides him a glance. “I gotta wonder…”</p><p>“There was never anything between us.”</p><p>“But did you want there to be?”</p><p>Of course James would catch the non-answer. “Yes,” Steve admits, honesty for honesty. “With everything that I had.”</p><p>“I’m so sorry, Steve.”</p><p>“It’s fine. I’ve had a lot of time to get used to it.”</p><p>There’s so much sadness in James’ eyes that it’s obvious he can see right through the lie. Steve isn’t truly fine, will never truly <em>be </em>fine. But that’s okay, too—his grief is part of him now, woven into the very fabric of his being. He wraps an arm around James and pulls him close. He still feels raw around the edges, but he wants to let go of the past and step all the way into this future with James.</p><p>James exhales, long and shaky, and slumps against Steve. For the first time since their date at the MOMA James seems to truly relax. In a way, Steve does, too. It’s a huge fucking relief that he can stop feeling like a creep for being reminded of John when he’s with James, for dreaming of James surrendering to him like John did.</p><p>“I’m glad it was you,” Steve says. “I don’t normally do things like that, but something about you…” His voice trails off and his lips twist into a wry smile. It’s funny how that phrase keeps coming up.</p><p>“I’m glad it was you, too.” James ducks his head. “I <em>did</em> used to do things like that, but I left those days behind me a long time ago. It’s just… Daniel was there that night with his wife so I was pretty much feeling like shit. Then I met you at the bar and, like you said, there was something about you…” He peeks at Steve from under his lashes. “You have no idea how much you helped me that night.”</p><p>“Then why—” Steve cuts himself off. “Nevermind.” It’s been years. He should just let it go. The important thing is that he was there when James was hurting.</p><p>“Hey, no, Steve,” James says. “Don’t do that. If there’s something you want to know, ask.”</p><p>Steve looks down at their intertwined hands. “I was going to ask you for your number, but you left without even saying goodbye.” He can still feel the sting of watching James walk away without a backward glance.</p><p>"Oh. Well. That." James grimaces. “I was gonna break all my rules and ask you, too, because… <em>wow.</em><em>” </em>He gives an apologetic shrug, mouth an unhappy line. “But the Black Widow showed up. I didn't recognize you <em>or</em> her.” In a quiet voice, he says, “I thought you guys were together."</p><p>Steve stares at James’ bent head. “Fuck,” he whispers. James’ dickhead ex. “I’m sorry. I didn't think of how that'd look."</p><p>“It’s okay,” James says. “Jess figured out who you were the next day. Barely had time to feel sorry for myself,” he adds, a wry twist to his lips.</p><p>Steve has a feeling James is underplaying it a little. “I’m still sorry.”</p><p>“Me too,” James says. “For not telling you sooner.”</p><p>“You had your reasons.” Steve presses a kiss to the corner of James’ mouth. “We’re good.” James smiles up at him. His eyes are soft and unshadowed by pain or guilt, but Steve can see the exhaustion hazing them. “Come on.” He tugs James to his feet. It’s been a hell of a week for him topped off by an emotional rollercoaster of an evening. “Let’s get you to bed. You look like you’re about to crash.”</p><p>James huffs. “I <em>feel</em> like I’m about to crash,” he says, as he lets Steve lead him to the bedroom.</p><p>When Steve pushes open the bedroom door, he pauses for a moment on the threshold. Next to him, James goes absolutely still as Steve studies the room.</p><p>It’s not what he expected. Instead of cozy and comfortable, it’s spare and almost minimalist. The wardrobe has no doors to conceal the clothes hung up on rods and placed neatly in shelves. The ensuite bathroom has clear glass walls with rolling blinds pulled up out of the way. The king-sized futon bed rests on a low platform that’s just a few inches high. There’s not a single hidden corner or blind spot in the room.</p><p>
  <em>James DeWitt was abducted from his hotel room in Dubai. </em>
</p><p>“Good setup,” Steve says, and leaves it at that.</p><p>James exhales softly and loosens his death grip on Steve’s hand. He gives Steve a tired smile. “Stay?”</p><p>Steve nods, glad that James doesn’t hesitate to turn to him for comfort. Desire is still there, but this… this feeling of a slow-burning ember warming him from the inside out, this feeling he only has around James, this is worth everything.</p><p>*</p><p>James is already in bed when Steve comes out of the bathroom in borrowed t-shirt and shorts. He’s sitting with his back propped against the headboard and his hair loose about his shoulders. He picks at the folds of the quilt covering his legs as he watches Steve, seeming almost nervous.</p><p>Oh.</p><p>James changed into a faded blue short-sleeved t-shirt while Steve was in the bathroom. He’s seeing James’ bare arm for the first time since the rescue.</p><p>It’s… a work of art.</p><p>A tattoo covers James’ left arm in a shifting swirl of cool blues and greens, indigos and violets, the occasional flash of rich, vibrant coral pink. It looks like a fever dream of a tropical sea with colors blending and swirling from one shade to another.</p><p>James watches him with a vulnerable look in his eyes as Steve sits on the bed and holds out his hand. “May I?”</p><p>Lower lip caught between his teeth, James stretches out his arm.</p><p>Whoever the tattoo artist is, they’re an absolute genius. Organic swirls and waves follow the ridged surfaces of the scar tissue that wrap all around James’ arm, starting from mid-upper arm all the way to his wrist. Steve’s eye follows the swirling path of one wave, mesmerized. He’s moments away from touching the tattoo when he catches himself. “Shit.” His gaze flies up. “I’m sorry—”</p><p>“It’s okay, Steve,” James says, softly. “You can touch.”</p><p>The timbre of his voice, a certain set to his mouth—it all reads like insecurity to Steve. He’s not sure if James’ tells are eerily similar to Bucky’s or if he’s got it all wrong, but either way he’d rather sit down for an hour-long interview on live TV than give James the impression he finds the scars ugly or repulsive in any way. Carefully, gently, he traces the line of indigo ink on James’ forearm that shifts into a deep and vibrant teal as it winds its way towards the wrist bone. James’ breath catches at the touch.</p><p>The skin under Steve’s fingers is ridged and finely dimpled. He knows this is from the way the skin graft was sliced full of slits so it could be stretched out to cover as much area as possible. He knows this because after he left James in the hospital he couldn’t to stop himself from reading up on the healing process for a third-degree burn victim. He researched every painful, excruciating detail and had to keep reminding himself that not contacting James was the right thing to do. Now, though, he’s agonizingly sure he made the wrong decision.</p><p>“It’s beautiful.” Steve leans down and presses a kiss to the inside of James’ wrist, right where his pulse beats. <em>“You’re </em>beautiful. Thank you for trusting me with this.” His heart aches at the thought of all the pain James must have gone through. “You got these trying to protect me.” Steve strokes his thumb over a rough swirl of scar tissue that’s been transformed into the graceful branches of sea coral. “I'm sorry I couldn't prevent it. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you after—”</p><p>“We talked about this.” James cups his cheek. “You saved my life. I'm not complaining.”</p><p>A tangled welter of emotions surge up at James’ touch—too many to sort out. All Steve can do is thank fate for bringing James safely back to his side.</p><p>“Besides,” James adds, dryly, “you did write me a nice thank you letter.”</p><p>Steve groans and scrubs a hand over his suddenly burning-hot face. “I’m sorry about that, too. I had a reason for it, I swear.”</p><p>“This should be interesting,” James says. He quirks his brow and pats the empty side of the bed.</p><p>A sheepish smile curves Steve’s lips. Just like Bucky, James has the knack of pulling him out of his head by poking gentle fun at him. Immediately on the heels of that thought comes guilt. He shouldn’t keep comparing James to Bucky, but in moments like these, when James does something that’s so reminiscent of Bucky, it’s hard not to.</p><p>“I said it was <em>a</em> reason,” Steve says, determinedly pushing all thoughts of Bucky out of his head as he climbs into bed. “Not that it was a very good one.” </p><p>“That’ll make it even <em>more </em>interesting.”</p><p>“You’re sure you don’t wanna do this in the morning after a good night’s sleep?”</p><p>“Oh, trust me, I can definitely stay awake for this.”</p><p>James’ eyes laugh up at him, and <em>Christ </em>he’s hard-pressed not to kiss him breathless. But he does owe James that explanation, so explain he will.</p><p>“Do you remember waking up on the trip back State-side after your rescue?”</p><p>James thinks for a moment, then his face goes blank. He nods. “I made you promise me that you won’t let anyone cut off my arm,” he says. “That’s about it.”</p><p>“You also… said you waited for me, asked why I didn’t—” Steve swallows past a lump in his throat. “Why I didn’t come for you.”</p><p>Steve catches a flash of <em>something</em> in James’ eyes, there and gone in a heartbeat.</p><p>“I said that?” James asks. “Did I—say anything else?”</p><p>“No.” He watches James carefully. A strange tension hums in the space between them, making the hair on the back of Steve’s neck rise. “Why did you—”</p><p>“So,” James says, cutting him off, “how did that end up with you writing me that letter?” He smiles brightly up at Steve like he doesn’t have a care in the world.</p><p>James is obviously trying to change the subject away from that moment in the quinjet, and yet, rather than wanting to dig deeper, some instinct from way back in Steve’s hindbrain is screaming: <em>Let him. </em>It’s screaming so loudly that it overrides the embarrassment of having to confess why exactly he left that letter and then never contacted James again.</p><p>“This is gonna sound bad,” Steve says. “But what you said in the quinjet… well… uh…”</p><p>“Come on, Steve. You’re actually making me nervous, here.”</p><p>Steve blows out a breath. “Christ, this is hard,” he mutters. “I swear I’m not an egotistical idiot who thinks the sun shines out my ass but—what you said sounded kind of like you… maybe… had… an unhealthy fixation on me and seeing me might only make it worse so I wrote the letter and left it with your sister,” he says, all in a rush.</p><p>James stares at him for a very long moment, face unreadable, while Steve grips the edge of the quilt with his sweaty hands. James’ lips compress into a tight line as he looks down at his lap.  The silence stretches out between them till Steve feels like a guitar string being slowly tightened to the point of snapping.</p><p>Then, James’ shoulders start to shake.</p><p>Steve stares at those hunched and shaking shoulders, not quite able to believe his eyes. “Are you laughing?”</p><p>James slants him a look, eyes creased with hilarity, a flush creeping up his cheeks. Tiny, muffled huffs of laughter escape him.</p><p>“You <em>are!</em><em>”</em></p><p>Tears are practically leaking out of his eyes now. That <em>fucker.</em> James looks so ridiculously adorable that Steve drags him onto his lap, blankets and all, and squishes him in a tight hug.</p><p>“Help,” James wheezes, through his laughter. “Can’t breathe.”</p><p>“Not my problem,” Steve grumbles. But he does loosen his hold. “Wanna share the joke?”</p><p>A few more snorts of laughter burst free, then James wipes his eyes and settles himself more comfortably in Steve’s lap with a long and very satisfied sigh. “Oh, Steve.” James’ eyes twinkle in the low light of the room as he loops his arms around Steve’s neck. “I think we’ve already established that I do very much have an unhealthy fixation on you.” He shrugs. “Have for years.”</p><p>“Jesus Christ.” Steve huffs a laugh as he recalls their first dinner together and James’ confession of his years-long crush. “We did, didn’t we.”</p><p>“So,” James says, “for the record, I totally understand why you left me that letter.”</p><p>Their gazes lock, the atmosphere between them quieting and gentling. Tears prickle at Steve’s eyes as they smile at each other. “Thank you,” he whispers.</p><p>James gives him a searching look. “What for?”</p><p>Only two places have ever really felt like home to him—the tiny, shabby tenement he shared with his mother, and the barely less shabby one he shared with Bucky. After losing first his mother then Bucky, he didn’t think he’d ever have that feeling again. But seeing James smile at him with eyes so full of warmth, he begins to hope that maybe he can finally find a home here in the future.</p><p>“For—being you,” Steve says.</p><p>James’ eyes go wide and vulnerable. “Christ, Steve,” he mumbles. “Please don’t ever go around telling people you’re not smooth ever again. Because that is a patent lie.”</p><p>Steve smiles and gives James one last squeeze before depositing him carefully back on the bed. “Come on.” He lies down and pulls James close. “Sleep. I know you’re exhausted.”</p><p>A huge sigh escapes James as settles himself more comfortably in Steve’s arms. “I can’t believe that’s finally out of the way but now I’m too tired to let you take advantage of me.”</p><p>The slow-burning heat in Steve’s gut kicks up a notch at James’ choice of words. “Get your rest now,” Steve whispers, lips a bare inch away from James’ ear. “I’m taking the morning off, too.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Epilogue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>By the time Maria wraps up the debriefing session and the team starts filing out of the briefing room, it’s nearly two in the morning. Steve stands up and shrugs into his jacket with a wince.</p><p>“You really should get that looked at,” Sam says, as he gets up slowly and carefully from his seat.</p><p>“I’ll be fine. It’s just a bruise.” It covers more than half his torso, sure, but it’ll be gone in a day or two thanks to the serum. If the medical team get their hands on him, they’ll want him to stay the night for observation but he’d much rather rest and recuperate at James’ apartment. He hasn’t seen him in nearly a week, and the occasional text and rushed phone call are very poor substitutes for seeing James in person.</p><p>“Are <em>you </em>gonna stop by medical?” Steve asks, not liking the way Sam is favoring his right shoulder. The sheer amount of guts and determination it must take for him to keep throwing himself into mission after mission as an unenhanced human never fails to fill Steve with admiration. And also, worry.</p><p>Sam’s grin is more than a little wry as he shakes his head. “Nothing a bathtub full of ice won’t fix.”</p><p>Steve snorts in response, recognizing the sentiment.</p><p>“You heading to James’ place?” Sam asks.</p><p>“Yeah. He’s got a fully stocked first-aid kit now and he knows the drill.” After practically living at James’ apartment for the past two months, James has more than enough experience to help him if he needs it. That help is often accompanied by a lot of muttering about the recklessness of certain blond brickhouses but the combination of grumbling and gentle hands is something that Steve finds comforting, and also very familiar.</p><p>“You two have gotten really close really fast.”</p><p>“We just click, I guess.” He’s not even sure how to explain it to himself, much less Sam, why being with James feels so easy and familiar. All he’s sure of is that it’s not because of how much James looks like Bucky—spending nearly all his free time together with James would get really old really fast if that was the only reason.</p><p>“You ever ask him about that weird thing when he woke up in the ‘jet? When he said he was waiting for you?” Sam presses the lift button and turns to Steve with a carefully neutral expression on his face.</p><p>Steve stuffs his hands in his jacket pockets and looks at the floor.</p><p>“You didn’t, did you.”</p><p>“It wasn’t necessary, Sam.” From the corner of his eye, he can see the worry on Sam’s face. He shrugs. “I’ve spent enough time with him to know that I trust him.” Besides, after James’ confession, it doesn’t take a big leap to guess that James subconsciously fixed on to him as a rescuer as a way to cope with his captivity. Hope can do strange things to the brain. He’s not about to tell Sam that, though. It didn’t feel right to share something so personal about James with anyone. Not even Sam.</p><p>Sam studies him for a long moment and then he heaves a sigh. “Okay.” He holds up his hands in surrender. “I trust you. You trust him.” They step into the lift when the doors slide open. “Don’t get me wrong, though,” Sam says. “I’m glad you’re with him. You seem… happier.”</p><p>“That’s because I am, Sam.” He grins, already feeling lighter at the thought of going home to James. “I am.”</p><p>*</p><p>When Steve gets to James’ apartment, he takes a moment to send silent thanks to Tony for upgrading the security system so he doesn’t have to wake James up to undo all the locks. After a quick scan of his body, the subroutine running the system lets him in and locks up behind him. He drops his duffel bag by the door and hangs his jacket up on the hook, the last of his tension slipping away as he toes off his shoes and leaves them by the door.</p><p>On silent feet, he enters the bedroom and smiles when he catches sight of James completely bundled up in his quilt. All that’s visible of him in the low light from the bedside lamp is a disheveled mop of dark hair spread on the pillow. After sharing a bed with James for months, Steve is very much aware of just how much he hates the sensation of cold air on his skin.</p><p>He’s about to turn away from the bed when James inhales sharply. “James?” he whispers, leaning closer.</p><p>There’s no reply, but James flinches with a sharp and violent motion. The rasp of shifting fabric is loud in the quiet room. James’ breathing picks up as he mutters something. Then, he whimpers—a sound so full of pain and terror that Steve goes cold. He puts a hand on James’ shoulder and calls his name again.</p><p>James’ eyes open. “Steve?” His gaze is unfocused and his pupils are dilated with panic. He’s looking right at Steve but he doesn’t quite seem to <em>see </em>him. “You came,” he sobs. “Oh god, you came… They were cutting… he was—my arm—” James jerks upright, throws off the quilt and looks down at his arm as though needing visual confirmation it’s still there.</p><p>“Hey, hey… it’s okay.” Steve strokes James’ tangled hair back from his sweaty forehead. “I’m here.”</p><p>“Don’t let him find me, Steve.” James grips Steve’s wrist. His hand is cold and clammy. “I don’t want to go back.”</p><p>“Who,” Steve grates out, a slow, burning rage coiling in his gut as he covers James’ hand with his own. Whoever hurt James, he’ll find him and he’ll make him pay and then make sure he’ll never be able to hurt James ever again.</p><p>“Zola,” James gasps, his voice tight with fear. “He’ll find me. He always finds me…”</p><p>For a moment, all Steve can hear is white noise in his head. He must have misheard. There’s no way James said Zola. Even as he thinks it, he knows he’s kidding himself. There was no mistake no matter how much he wishes there was.</p><p>
  <em>“James.”</em>
</p><p>The urgency in Steve’s voice seems to penetrate the haze James is in. He blinks a few times and focuses fully on Steve for the first time since he woke up. “Steve?” He looks around and seems almost surprised to find himself in his own bedroom. “When did you—?”</p><p>“Who’s Zola?” There’s no way James should know that name. Nat and Tony ran a full background check on him without bothering to tell Steve first. He was pissed as fuck when they showed him the results, but he can’t deny that it was a relief to have his gut feeling about James confirmed. So how the hell did James know Zola—a name that only the highest level of clearance had access to?</p><p>James eyes Steve’s clenched jaw. “Just—some guy in my dream.”</p><p>Steve takes a deep breath and straightens up when he realizes he’s looming over James. “You’ve had this dream before.” He remembers James’ father and sister arguing at the hospital about his fear of losing his arm. He remembers Jessica distinctly saying: <em>his dreams. </em>Plural.</p><p>“Yes,” James says. He shifts back and watches Steve carefully. “Ever since I was a kid.”</p><p>“Who’s Zola, James.”</p><p>Steve waits, hoping for a rational reason why James would be dreaming of someone named Zola. It can’t be the same Zola. The surname isn’t common, sure, but it’s not outside the realm of possibility that James might know someone with that surname.</p><p>“He’s—” James swallows. Steve feels a moment of guilt at pushing James to talk about something that’s obviously distressing but he has to know. “In my dream,” James says, finally, “he’s the guy in charge of the operation. He’s not the one holding the saw, but he’s there, watching. And for some reason, he’s the one who scares me the most.”</p><p>“What does he look like?”</p><p>James’ eyes widen with shock and a little bit of fear. “It’s just a dream, Steve.”</p><p>“Please,” Steve whispers. “What does he look like.”</p><p>James’ already pale face goes even paler as he stares at Steve. “White guy,” he says, in a tight voice. “Short. Face like a dumpling, glasses like John Lennon. Balding.”</p><p>Every word hits Steve like a punch in the gut. He feels like he’s going to vomit. He pulls away from James and turns to face the far wall.</p><p>“Steve?” A warm hand grips his shoulder. “What’s wrong?”</p><p>Steve stares at his tightly clenched hands. “We never found Bucky’s body.”</p><p>The hand on his shoulder drops away. “Why are you telling me this?”</p><p>“The guy you described—Zola—he’s real, just like you described him.” Steve grabs his sketchpad and pencil from the nightstand and does a quick sketch of Zola. Focus on the lines. Focus on getting Zola’s likeness down on paper. Don’t think. Don’t think about Bucky strapped to a table. Don’t think about a saw, blood, Bucky screaming.</p><p>He shows the completed sketch to James, watching him carefully.</p><p>James flinches, pupils dilating with fear. Then, he squeezes his eyes shut seemingly on instinct. His mouth sets into a thin, tight line. “How—?”</p><p>There’s nothing fake about James’ immediate and visceral reaction to the drawing of Zola. The last, tiny hope that it isn’t the same Zola flickers out. Steve closes the sketchbook and tosses it back onto the nightstand. Fuck clearance, he decides. James dreams about the bastard, he has a right to know.</p><p>“His name is Dr. Arnim Zola. He was a scientist working for Hydra—”</p><p>“For <em>Hydra?</em><em>”</em></p><p>Steve nods. “They captured Bucky during the war. I think—I think Zola experimented on him. Our last mission together was to recapture Zola but—” Steve’s mouth twists at the memory. “Bucky died protecting me.”</p><p>“You said—you never found his body,” James says, a strangely fearful look on his face. “How did he die?”</p><p>“He fell out of a moving train.” The words burn like acid on his tongue. “My fault. I didn’t notice a soldier sneaking up on me with a gun. Bucky picked up the shield and covered me. The blast blew him out the side of the train. I—” Steve looks down, unable to get the words out while looking at the mirror image of Bucky’s face. “I didn’t get to him in time.”</p><p>“Was it—” James swallows, as though his throat has gone dry. “Were you guys high up? Was it cold?”</p><p>James is terrified of heights, he hates the cold. Steve’s breath stutters in his lungs at the realization. “We were in the Swiss Alps,” he whispers. James looks like one touch will shatter him.  Honestly, Steve feels about the same.</p><p>James closes his eyes and takes a shuddering breath. He looks small and scared and vulnerable as he hugs his knees to his chest. “I’ve had two recurring nightmares since I was a kid,” he says, in a voice so soft that Steve can barely hear it over the rapid pounding of his heart. “One is of Zola. The other is of—falling.”</p><p>Steve shifts closer to James on the bed. “Can you tell me? Your dreams?”</p><p>In a quiet voice, James tells him of being suspended from a high place, of reaching out to someone, of falling into the cold. Steve tries not to flinch as every quiet word feels like suture after suture being ripped from a wound that never fully healed. In his head, he hears Bucky’s scream as he fell. Thanks to the serum, the memory is still crystal clear and unfaded by time—every sight, every sound, the tearing sensation in his throat as he screams Bucky’s name, the feeling of his heart being ripped from his chest as Bucky faded from sight.</p><p>Then, while Steve is still trying to free himself from the grip of that memory, James starts describing another dream—this time he’s being operated on while Zola watches. His voice grows even quieter as he describes being strapped to a table while fully conscious, of men with bone saws, of red blood and a gray haze slowly creeping over the scene, of hoping and hoping and hoping for someone to come... James doesn’t say Steve’s name, but after what happened in the quinjet, he doesn’t have to. “Finally,” he says, “everything goes black and then I—” He looks down at his tightly-clenched hands and doesn’t say anything else.</p><p><em>And then I die,</em> Steve finishes in his head, absolutely certain that’s what James would’ve said. “I left Bucky to die,” he whispers. “He waited for me to come save him but I—” Every word is sharp-edged glass in his mouth. His chest feels like it’s being cracked open with crowbar.</p><p>“Hey.” Warm hands cup his face, sad and gentle eyes stare into his own. “You don’t know that.”</p><p>“You have his memories.”</p><p>James’ hands drop away. “But—they’re just dreams…” he says, as if it’s himself he’s trying to convince.</p><p>“When he fell—he was reaching out for me. Just like in your dream. No one knows that but Bucky and me. It’s not in any report anywhere.” Those were their last moments together. He refused to share them with anyone.</p><p>James’ eyes go wide. He chews his lips and stares at Steve with a mixture of disbelief and realization. “You know, I had one therapist that suggested past life regression hypnosis. Maybe I should’ve taken them up on it.” He gives a slightly manic-sounding laugh. “It’d definitely explain why I’ve been uh… fascinated by you since I was a kid.”</p><p>Reincarnation. That’s what James is alluding to. And he’s right. He has to be right because nothing else makes sense. In fact, a lot of things are finally starting to <em>make </em>sense—that instant feeling of recognition when he first met James, the way James seems to know his way around Steve’s moods, the way they fit so easily and comfortably into each other’s lives as though they’ve known each other for years instead of just months.</p><p>And just maybe—if his dreams were anything to go by—subconsciously, he’d always known, had already recognized that the core of John, of James, of Bucky, they were all the same person—the person he loves best. Even from their first night together.</p><p>But if it’s true, if Bucky was somehow reborn as James, then—</p><p>Then he’d failed Bucky in the worst possible way.</p><p>“He died because he tried to protect me. I should’ve gone back for him… But I—” He swallows back the truth that burns bitter and acrid like bile. He gave up. That was the simple fact. He believed Bucky had died cold and alone. Going down with the Valkyrie seemed fitting. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, and squeezes his eyes shut, not able to bring himself to meet James’ gaze. “I’m so sorry.”</p><p>For long moments, he can hear nothing but the pounding of his own heart in his ears, his heaving breaths as he tries not to cry. Then, warm arms wrap tightly around him.</p><p>“Hey,” James says, sad and so terribly affectionate that it’s like a stab to the heart. “If you really believe that I’m him, then I think it should mean something that I’ve never felt any kind of anger or hate towards you. Just the opposite, in fact. Even as a kid, Steve.”</p><p><em>He</em><em>’s glad you made it through the war. </em>James’ words to him at the MOMA. Steve wanted so much to believe it when James said it… and now… now maybe he can begin to.</p><p>“My dream…” James says. Something in his expression makes Steve brace for his next words. “The one where I’m—<em>he</em><em>’s</em> on the table. It’s a relief when it ends. He didn’t—he didn’t want to be there.”</p><p>Was it a blessing that whatever experiment Zola tried to run on Bucky had failed? It didn’t take a genius to guess that Zola was trying to develop a serum so Hydra could create their own supersoldiers. What kind of life would Bucky have had if the experiment had succeeded? A pained sound escapes him at the thought. Bucky would never tell him what Zola did to him, but sometimes, he had such a lost look in his eyes that Steve was terrified Bucky wouldn’t be able to find his way back. And yet, Steve was the one who put Bucky right back in Zola’s path.</p><p>“Steve. Steve, come on. You’re scaring me.” James shakes his arm. “Look at me, Steve. It’s all in the past. There’s nothing you can do to change it.” James cards his fingers through Steve’s hair as though trying to soften the blow of his words. “Leave it in the past where it belongs.”</p><p>“You’re right, I know.” Much as Steve hates it, much as it goes against his nature to let a thing go, he knows James is right. And the thing is, being with James has already helped him to live more in the present. But this… everything he just learned… it feels like long-scabbed-over wounds are fresh and raw and bleeding again. “It’s just… a lot to process. Be patient with me?”</p><p>“Idiot. As if you even need to ask. I’ll always be here for you.”</p><p>James’ words carry the weight of a solemn vow that settle deep into the foundations of Steve’s soul. Steve is suddenly aware of how lucky he is that from one life to the next, he would get to have this man by his side. He cups a hand around that beloved face that’s so innocent still. Bucky had left his innocence behind long ago on the blood-soaked battlefields of war, on the cold metal tables of one lab after another. <em>‘Til the end of the line</em>. The words are his silent vow in return. He failed Bucky in his previous life, maybe he can make it up to him in this one. And maybe, finally, in this life, they have a chance to be together in a way they never could in the past.</p><p>“But,” James says, hesitantly, “you know I’m not <em>really </em>him, right? Not exactly?”</p><p>There, just for a moment, Steve sees the insecurity behind that question. “James.” Steve kisses him, soft and gentle, hoping to convey all the love he has inside him for the warm, funny, charming young man who sneaked through all his defenses. “I know. But you’ve given me a home just the same.”</p><p>James goes pliant against him. “Christ, you’re smooth,” he mutters, cheeks looking a little pink as he peeks up from under his long, feathery lashes.</p><p>“We must really be meant to be.” Steve slides them down under the covers and tugs James closer. “’Cause you’re probably the only person who thinks so.” His tone is dry but the sentiment is very real. After all the ways their lives have intersected, it’s hard not to believe that fate helped them to find their way back to each other.</p><p>“We must be,” James agrees. His voice is hushed, but Steve can hear the smile in it.</p><p> </p><p>
  
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This art is so hot it deserves to be featured twice! Please give it some love in the comments :D</p><p>Come find us on tumblr :) <a href="https://cobaltmoonysart.tumblr.com/">cobaltmoony</a> and <a href="http://yetanotherobsessivereader.tumblr.com/">yetanotherobsessivereader</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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